LONGER 
NARRATIVE  POEMSi 


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AT    LOS  ANGELES 


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THE    HAWTHORNE   CLASSICS 


LONGER  NARRATIVE   POEMS 


EDITED  BY 

EDWARD   EVERETT  ^HALE,  Jr.,  Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR   OF   RHETORIC    AND   LOGIC    IN    UNION    COLLEGE 


GLOBE   SCHOOL   BOOK   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  AND  CHICAGO 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
Globe  School  Book  Company. 

M.  P.  I 


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MANHATTAN    PRESS 

474   WEST    BROADWAY 

NEW    YORK 


V 


PREFATORY   NOTE 


This  volume  is  designed  to  continue  the  study 
of  narrative  poetry  begun  in  the  volume,  in  this 
series,  on  Ballads.  As  in  that  book,  the  effort 
is  to  bring  out,  by  a  comparison  of  different  ex- 
amples, the  generic  or  typical  quality,  while  not 
losing  sight  of  the  other  element  of  importance, 
the  cliaracteristic  or  particular  quality  of  each. 
The  most  noteworthy  narrative  poems  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  chance  to  be  sufficiently  various  in 
^  spirit  and  workmanship  to  illustrate  many  differ- 
»  ent  forms  of  epic  quality.  One  omission  might 
^  be  noted,  that  of  the  humorous  tale.  Without 
^  aspersion  of  "The  Ingoldsby  Legends,"  for  in- 
\^  stance,  it  seems  as  if  such  verse  is  so  different 
V  in  spirit  from  our  selections,  that  little  good  would 
Jx^come  from  a  juxtaposition  which  could  hardly 
^  help  giving  a  certain  jar. 

E.  E.  H.,  Jr. 


.'55.%66 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction v" 

Longer  Narrative  Poems  : 

horatius  .        .        .        •      '  .        »        •        •        1 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

sohrab  and  rustum 26 

Matthew  Arnold 

Enoch  Arden 59 

Alfred  Tennyson 

Christabel ,93 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 104 

John  Keats 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 121 

Lord  Byron 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship      ....     135 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

Atalanta's  Race 165 

AVilliam  Morris 
The  Flight  of  the  Duchess       .         .         •         .192 

Robert  Browning 

Michael 226 

William  Wordsworth 

Notes -'^^ 

V 


INTRODUCTION 

Poetry  may  be  lyric,  in  which  the  poet  tells  us 
of  himself,  expresses  his  own  feelings  and  thoughts, 
or  it  may  be  narrative,  in  which  he  tells  us  about 
some  other  person.  The  general  class  of  narra- 
tive poetry  is  sometimes  called  "  epic,"  but  as  that 
word  is  also  used  specifically  for  the  longer  nar- 
rative poems  (as,  for  example,  the  "Iliad,"  the 
"  Shah  Nameh,"  "  Paradise  Lost ")  the  word  does 
not  seem  quite  appropriate  to  the  shorter  forms  of 
narrative  poetry.  There  are  other  kinds  of  poetry 
besides  these,  which  need  not  be  mentioned  here  : 
lyric  and  narrative  poetry  are  most  often  met  with, 
as  is  natural,  for  poets,  like  other  people,  generally 
wish  to  speak  of  themselves  or  somebody  else. 

The  simplest  kind  of  narrative  poetry  is  the 
ballad,  and  the  student  may  see  in  the  volume  on 
"  Ballads  and  Ballad  Poetry,"  what  the  original, 
popular  ballad  is,  and  how,  as  literature  gets  more 
and  more  developed,  the  ballad  becomes,  in  the 
hands  of  a  poet,  either  a  literary  ballad  or  a  narra- 
tive poem  of  ballad  spirit  and  quality.  Of  this 
last  kind  is  especially  Scott's  "  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel "  :  it  is  a  ballad  lengthened  out  and 
elaborated.     The  long  epic  poems  of  half-civilized 


vu 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION 

nations,  like  the  "  Iliad  "  in  Greek  or  "  Beowulf  " 
in  Old  English,  have  often  been  thought  to  have 
had  for  foundation  some  collection  of  ballads  on 
the  deeds  of  some  hero.  But  tliese  are  not  the  only 
forms  of  narrative  poetry.  As  literature  devel- 
ops, there  soon  appear  tales  in  verse  and  longer 
narrative  poems  of  all  kinds.  These  are  not  bal- 
lads :  they  are  not  of  the  ballad  character  as  a 
rule,  of  that  combination  of  simplicity  and  passion 
that  we  recognize  in  the  ballads  of  all  uations. 
They  are  more  elaborate  :  the  story  goes  for  less, 
but  the  poet's  way  of  conceiving  and  telling  the 
story  goes  for  more. 

Of  such  imaginative  poems  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury is  the  great  period  in  English  literature.  It 
is  true  that  the  poetry  of  the  fourteenth  and  earlier 
centuries  was  almost  entirely  narrative,  and  that 
some  of  it  was  in  the  form  of  the  tale  or  short 
story  in  verse.  At  the  end  of  medieval  literature 
in  England  comes  Chaucer,  who  is  yet  to  be  sur- 
passed as  a  story-teller  and  poet.  But  although 
there  were  not  a  few  poets  besides  Chaucer,  there 
were  not  even  a  few  narrative  poems  in  verse  which 
are  nearly  as  good  as  the  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  and 
even  if  there  had  been,  the  language  in  which  they 
were  written  would  be  so  different  from  our  own 
that  we  need  hardly  consider  them.  The  next  great 
poetical  period  is  the  Elizabethan,  of  which  the 
chief  power  was  dramatic  :  it  was  by  no  means 
without  narrative  poetry,  but  its  chief  strength  lay 


INTROBUCriOJSf  IX 

elsewhere.  At  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  and 
during  the  eighteenth  centuries  there  prevailed  a 
school  of  poetry  which  had  many  fine  characteris- 
tics, but  of  which  the  best  examples  were  didactic, 
descriptive,  elegiac,  satiric,  anything  in  fact  but 
narrative.  But  with  the  latter  half  of  the  century 
came  what  is  known  as  the  Romantic  movement. 
A  passion  for  the  old  ballads,  an  enthusiasm  for  the 
Middle  Ages,  a  love  of  nature,  —  these  and  other 
feelings  inspired  a  number  of  poets,  who  at  once 
poured  forth,  not  only  lyric  poetry,  but  also  all 
forms  of  narrative  poetry  from  the  ballad  to  the 
epic.  Of  all  the  great  romantic  group  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  century  —  Scott,  Byron,  Words- 
worth, Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats,  Southey  —  only 
one  was  not  largely,  often  chiefly,  narrative  in  the 
turn  of  his  genius,  and  that  was  Shelley.  They 
all  had  stories  to  tell.^  So  also  had  the  two  great 
poets  who  followed  them,  Tennyson  and  Brown- 
ing, and  many  of  those  only  less  great  who  were 
contemporary  with  them,  as  Mrs.  Browning  and 
Matthew  Arnold. 

We  have  therefore  chosen  our  specimens  of 
longer  narrative  entirely  from  the  nineteenth 
century,  but  even  in  the  nineteenth  century  alone 
the  range  of  narrative  poetry  is  so  broad  as  to 
illustrate  almost  all  forms  and  kinds.     We  have 

1  The  remark  needs  qualification  with  respect  to  Wordsworth. 
With  him  the  story  was  of  course  not  in  itself  the  main  thing. 
Still  a  good  proportion  of  his  poems  is  narrative. 


X  INTRODUCTION 

cases  where  the  story,  the  incident,  is  ahnost 
everything,  as  in  "  Horatius,"  and  where  it  is 
almost  nothing,  as  in  "The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 
We  have  poems  of  all  the  glamour  and  romance  of 
old  time,  like  "Sohrab  and  Rustum"  or  "  Atalanta's 
Race,"  and  poems  of  our  own  day,  like  "  Enoch 
Arden"  and  "Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship."  We 
have  a  great  many  different  kinds  of  verse-forms, 
from  the  classic  blank  verse  of  "  Michael  "  and  the 
elaborate  stanzas  of  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  to 
the  loose  freedom  of  rhyme  of  "  The  Flight  of  the 
Duchess  "  or  the  freedom  in  rhythm  of  "  Christa- 
bel."  We  have  in  fact  a  very  great  variety  within 
a  single  kind  of  poetry. 

When  we  turn  to  the  poems  to  study  them  a 
little  with  a  view  to  a  finer,  more  critical  enjoy- 
ment later,  we  must  perceive,  it  would  seem,  first 
a  general  likeness  and  then  the  many  differences, 
some  in  form  and  subject,  and  some  of  the  manner 
of  handling,  which  is  apt  to  be  the  thing  that  gives 
us  an  idea  of  the  character  of  the  poet.  These 
things  are  points  of  knowledge,  certainly,  and 
knowledge  only  of  poetry  is  not  the  great  thing 
—  true  enjoyment  is  the  really  important  matter. 
But  such  knowledge  as  this  may  be  made  the 
foundation  of  enjoyment,  because  it  is  pretty  sure 
to  bring  out  in  our  reading  things  which  we  shall 
enjoy  and  which  we  might  otherwise  neglect. 

What  is  the  interesting  thing  in  such  narrative 
poems  as  we  have  here  ?     If  we  look  through  our 


INTRODUCTION  XI 


selections,  we  shall  say  that  it  is  that  a  poem  like 
these    presents   us   some   phase    or   experience  of 
human   passion.      It  is  not   pure    interest  in  the 
story,  although    some    of    these    poems   have    in- 
teresting    stories  —  "  Horatius  "    most,    perhaps, 
''Sohrab  and  Rustum"  next,  —  stories  which  with 
any  telling  would  hold  our  attention  ;  but  others 
have  little  special  interest  in  the  story,  not  only 
"  Michael,"  which  may  lack  interest  for  younger 
readers,    but    even    ''The    Eve    of    St.    Agnes." 
Compare   this  last  with  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  if 
you  would  see   what  this  same   story  might   be. 
So  "  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess "  has  not  much 
interest  in  the  story,  as  a  story  merely.      These 
two  poems  are  interesting  to  us  because  each  one 
is  an  intense  phase  of  hum-an  passion.     Each  gives 
us  a  moment  where  the  soul  is  keyed  up  (as  we 
might  say)   to  a   pitch  whereon  it  gives  forth  a 
harmony  finer,  rarer,  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
everyday  life.      That  is  the  main  thing  in  each 
poem  :  that  is  something  we  always  want  to  find 
in  all  such  poems  as  these.     The  Duchess  listens 
to  the  old  gypsy  woman  and  life  opens  out  to  her 
in  wider  vistas  leading  to  broadening   horizons. 
Porphyro  and  Madeline  in  one  intense  moment 
forget  the  luxuries  at  hand,  forget  even  the  dan- 
gers surrounding    them,   forget    everything    save 
the  feeling  that  they  are  together  and  that  for- 
ever.    It  is  such  a  moment  of  elevation  of  spirit 
that  a  true  narrative  poem  reaches  gradually  by 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

means  of  a  story  which  must  be  told  that  we  may 
appreciate  the  great  poetical  moment.  We  may 
not  always  appreciate  at  first  the  true  passion 
which  elevates  perhaps  some  humble  creature  into 
a  great  soul,  but  really  old  Michael  sitting  on  the 
stoneheajD  that  was  to  have  been  a  sheepfold  felt 
as  keenly  and  sincerely  as  Rustum  as  he  sat 
mourning  upon  the  deserted  battle-field.  And 
Enoch  Arden,  when  he  makes  tlie  sacrifice  of  his 
own  happiness  to  that  of  his  wife  and  family,  is 
for  that  moment  as  noble  as  Horatius  when  he 
risks  life  to  save  the  city  that  he  loves.  Bonni- 
vard  looking  at  the  bird,  Bertram  seeing  Lady 
Geraldine  in  the  window,  Christabel  held  spell- 
bound by  the  dark  lady,  Milanion  as  he  catches 
Atalanta  in  her  stumble  at  the  goal,  —  these  are 
figures  in  which  life  has  attained  a  point  above 
the  common  plane,  breathes  more  freely  a  rarer 
air,  and  sees  more  widely. 

We  must  appreciate  such  moments  or  we  miss 
the  truly  poetic  element  in  the  poem.  It  is  true 
that  in  each  poem  much  is  needed  to  bring  us  up 
to  this  moment  ;  we  must  understand  a  number  of 
facts  about  it  (as,  for  instance,  all  Enoch's  re- 
lations with  Annie  and  Philip)  and  we  must  also 
be  emotionally  prepared  for  full  sympathy  with 
the  intense  moment.  But  these  are  not  the  main 
thing ;  and  if  we  get  but  these,  interesting  as  they 
often  may  be  in  themselves,  we  do  not  get  the 
whole. 


INTRODUCTION  XI 11 

Now  some  such  thing  as  this  is  given  us  in 
almost  all  poetry.  But  in  lyric  poetry  it  is  given 
to  us  simply,  without  the  commixture  of  any  story 
and  without  the  help  of  any  preparation.  It 
exists  to  some  degree  in  all  narrative  poetry, 
although  in  ballad  poetry  the  emotional  character 
is  generally  diffused  throughout  the  poem  and  in 
the  longer  epic  these  poetic  crises  are  repeated 
and  sometimes,  indeed  generally,  developed  into 
some  main  climax.  But  the  narrative  poem  of 
moderate  length  has  space  enough  to  prepare  the 
reader  fully  for  one  main  moment,  either  by  facts 
or  by  circumstances,  and  practically  for  but  one. 
In  "  Horatius "  the  noble  deeds  of  the  three 
Romans  bring  us  to  the  moment  when  Horatius 
leaps  into  the  Tiber.  In  "  The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes"  three  or  four  imaginative  descriptions — 
the  chapel,  the  revel,  the  chamber  —  have  aroused 
and  stimulated  our  appreciation  so  that  we  are 
ready  to  respond  to  the  full  romantic  feeling  when 
Madeline  awakes. 

But  while  we  appreciate  the  moment  of  poetic 
passion  wherever  we  find  it,  — ■  it  is  least  in  "  Hora- 
tius" and  "  Atalanta's  Race,"  most  in  "The  Flight 
of  the  Duchess "  and  "  Sohrab  and  Rustum,"  — 
let  us  not  forget  to  appreciate  also  the  particular 
quality  which  each  poet  gives  us  also.  Browning 
and  Matthew  Arnold  —  how  different  the  free 
running  on  of  the  easy  verse  which  is  quite  able 
to  rise  to  noble  feeling  wherever  it  is  needful,  and 


XIV  INTRODUCTION 

the  calm  beauty  of  the  classic  narrative  ;  not  to 
notice  the  especial  character  of  each  would  surely 
be  to  lose  much  of  what  each  poem  has  for  us. 
The  poet's  general  manner,  his  metrical  powers, 
his  imagination,  his  figured  expression,  —  we  want 
to  get  all  that.  Tliere  is  an  innnense  amount  with 
each  one  that  belongs  to  that  one  man  and  to  him 
only,  so  that  he  is  a  favorite  with  us,  or  with  some- 
body else,  different  from  all  others  and  for  us 
better.  Some  of  these  things  are  pointed  out  in 
the  notes,  but  an  editor  cannot  do  everything,  and 
the  best  things  in  poetry  are  apt  to  come  to  one 
after  much  reading,  in  ways  that  even  a  professor 
of  literature,  or  of  pedagogy,  cannot  (at  present) 
unravel. 


HORATIUS 

BY    THOMAS    BABINGTON   MACAULAY 

A  Lay  made  about  the  Year  of  the  City  CCCLX 


Lars  Porsena  of  Clusiimi 

By  the  nine  Gods  lie  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquiii  ^ 

Shoukl  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

To  summon  his  array. 

II 

East  a-nd  west  and  soutli  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast. 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home. 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome  ! 

B  1 


HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


III 
The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place ; 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain ; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beach  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine  ; 

IV 

From  lordly  Volaterra;,^ 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old  ; 
From  seagirt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain-tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky ; 

V 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisse, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves  ; 
From  where  SAveet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers ; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 


nORATIUS 


VI 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  dark  Auser's  rill ; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear ; 
Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

VII 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill ; 
No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer; 
Unharmed  the  water  fowl  may  dip 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

VIII 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap, 
This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep; 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year,  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 


HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


IX 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  always  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand  : 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  ^  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 

X 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given : 
"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena ; 

Go,  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven  ; 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome  ; 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  *  of  Rome." 

XI 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten : 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array. 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  try  sting  day. 


^ 


HORATIUS 


XII 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 
And  many  a  banished  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally ; 
And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

XIII 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight, 
A  mile  around  the  city, 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways ; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

XIY 

For  aged  folk  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child. 
And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled. 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 
And  troops  of  sun-burned  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 


HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


XV 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine, 
And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 

And  endless  herds  of  kine, 
And  endless  trains  of  wagons 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 

XVI 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  ^  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

XVII 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands ; 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain ; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 


HORATIUS 


XVIII 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 
But  sore  it  ached  and  fast  it  beat. 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul,^ 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

XIX 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River-Gate ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly  : 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost. 

Nought  else  can.  save  the  town." 

XX 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying. 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear ; 
"  To  arms  !  to  arms  !   Sir  Consul : 

Lars  Forsena  is  here  !  " 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 


r' 


8  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


XXI 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 
And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud,'' 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right. 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light. 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright. 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

XXII 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly. 

Above  that  glimmering  line. 
Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine  ; 
But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 

Was  highest  of  them  all, 
The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

XXIII 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 
Now  might  the  burghers  know, 

By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest. 
Each  warlike  Lucumo. 


HORATIUS  9 

There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen  ; 
And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield, 
Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 
And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

XXIV 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name  ; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

XXV 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed, 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

XXVI 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad. 
And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 


10  IIAWTIIOENE  CLASSICS 

And  darkly  looked  lie  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town?" 

XXVII 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate  : 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods, 

XXVIII 

"And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest. 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast. 
And  for  the  hioly  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame. 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

XXTX 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge.  Sir  Consul, 
With  all  the  speed  ye  may  ; 


nORATIUS  11 

I,  with  tAvo  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
Ill  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  " 

XXX 

Then  ont  spake  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

A  Ramnian  ^  proud  was  he  : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  ont  spake  strong  Herminins  ; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

XXXI 

''  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold. 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXII 

Then  none  was  for  a  party  ^  ; 
Then  all  were  for  the  state  : 


12  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 
And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great  : 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned  ; 
Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold  : 

The  Romans  were  like  brothers 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXIII 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe  ; 
And  the  Tribunes  ^^  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold  : 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXIV 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  ax  : 
And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons, 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

XXXV 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 
Right  glorious  to  behold, 


HORATIUS  '  13 

Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Rolled  slowly  toward  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

XXXVI 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent. 

And  looked  upon  the  foes. 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose  : 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array  ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew. 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way  ; 

XXXVII 

Aunus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines ; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines  ; 
And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium 

Vassal  in  peace  and  Avar, 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 


14  nAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 
O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

XXXVIII 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath  : 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth : 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust ; 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

XXXIX 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three  : 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea  ; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 

XL 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns  : 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  : 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 


HORATIUS  15 

"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accursed  sail." 

XLI 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

XLII 

But  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur  : 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide  ; 
And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clang's  loud  the  fourfold  shield. 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

XLIII 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 
A  smile  serene  and  high  ; 


16  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she-^Aolf s  litter ^^ 

Stands  savagely  at  bay  : 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?  " 

XLIV 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh  ; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 


XLV 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space ; 
Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped. 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 


HOBATIUS  17 


XLVI 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 
Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread , 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

XL  VII 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
"  And  see,"  he  cried,  "  the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?  " 

XL  VIII 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran, 
Mingled  of  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van. 
There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race  ; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 


18  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 


XLIX 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three : 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 

Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 


Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack  : 
But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  !  " 

And  those  before  cried  "  Back  !  " 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array  ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel ; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

LI 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 
Stood  out  before  the  crowd  ; 


HORATIUS  19 

Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 
And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud, 

"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 
Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 

Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 
Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

LII 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury. 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread : 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred. 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

LIII 

But  meanwhile  ax  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !  " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
"  Back,  Lartius  !  back,  Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  !  " 

LIV 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  ; 
Herminius  darted  back  : 


20  HAWTHORNE    CLASSICS 

And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 
They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 

But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 
And  on  the  farther  shore 

Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 

LV 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam. 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream. 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  3'ellow  foam. 

LVI 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane. 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free. 
And  whirling  down  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

LVII 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 
But  constant  still  in  mind  ; 


HORATIVS  21 

Thrice  tliirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

LVIII 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  carven  ranks  to  see  ; 
Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he  ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus  ^^ 

The  white  |)orch  of  his  home  ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

LTX 

"  O  Tiber  !   father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day!  " 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

LX 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 
Was  heard  from  either  bank  ; 


22  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 


LXI 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain  : 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing  ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain. 
And  heavy  with  his  armor. 

And  spent  with  changing  bloAvs  : 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

LXII 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case. 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place  : 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within. 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 


HORATIUS 


23 


LXIII 
"  Curse  on  him  !  "  quoth  false  Sextus  ; 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town !  " 
"  Heaven  help  him  !  '^  qnoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"And  bring  him  safe  to  shore  ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

LXIV 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud. 
He  enters  through  the  River-Gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

LXV 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right. 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plow  from  morn  till  night ; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image. 

And  set  it  up  on  high. 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 


24  HAWTHOENE  CLASSICS 


LXVI 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium,^^ 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see ; 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee  : 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kej^t  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

LXVII 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home ; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

LXVIII 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow. 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  Avolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow; 
When  round  tlie  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din. 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within  ; 


HORATIUS  25 


LXIX 

When  the  oklest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers. 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 

LXX 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume  ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flasliing  through  the  loom ; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


26  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM 

AN  EPISODE 

BY    MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

And  tlie  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the  east, 

And  tlie  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream  .^ 

But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 

Was  hushed,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged  in 

sleep ; 
Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not ;  all  night  long 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed ; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his  tent, 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his  sword, 
And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left  his  tent. 
And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog. 
Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's  tent. 
Through  the  black  Tartar  tents  he  passed,  wliich 

stood 
Clustering  like  beehives  on  the  low  flat  strand     . 
Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer-floods  o'erflow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high  Pamere  ; 
Through  the  black  tents  ^  he  passed,  o'er  that  low 

strand. 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink  —  the  spot  where  first  a 

l)oat. 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes  the  land. 


SOHRAB   AND    UUSTUM  27 

The  men  of  former  times  had  crowned  the  top 
With  a  clay  fort ;  but  that  was  fall'n,  and  now 
The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it  felts  were  spread. 
And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and  stood 
Upon  the  thick  piled  carpets  in  the  tent, 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  liis  bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lay  his  arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  tliough  the  step 
Was  dulled  ;  for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man's  sleep ; 
And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said  :  — 

"  Who  art  thou  ?   for  it  is  not  yet  clear  dawn. 
Speak  !  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm  ?  " 

But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and  said : 
"Thou  know'st  me,  Peran-Wisa  !  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep  ;  but  I  sleep  not  ;  all  night  long  I  lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  marched ; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  -what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou  know'st  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan  first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars  and  bore  arms, 
I  have  still  served  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown. 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that  while  I  still  bear  on 
The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through  the  world, 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  held, 
I  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone  — 


28  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Rustum,  my  father  ;   who  I  hoped  should  greet, 
Shoukl  one  day  greet,  upon  some  well-fought  field, 
His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  noAv,  and  grant  me  what  I  ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day  ;.  but  I 
Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian  lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man  ;   if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it ;  if  I  fall  — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no  kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  ^  fight, 
Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names  are  sunk ; 
"But  of  a  single  combat  fame  speaks  clear." 

He  spoke  ;   and  Peran-Wisa  took  the  hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sighed,  and  said  :. 

"•  O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine  : 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs. 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance  with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  forever  first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk, 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen  ? 
That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with  us 
Unmurmuring  ;   in  our  tents,  while  it  is  war. 
And  when  'tis  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab's  towns. 
But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all. 
To  seek  out  Rustum  —  seek  him  not  through  fight! 
Seek  him, in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab  !   carry  an  unAvounded  son  ! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here. 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  1  was  young. 


SOHRAB   AND  RUSTUM  29 

When  Rustuin  was  in  front  of  every  fray ; 
Bat  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 
In  Seistan,  witli  Zal,  his  father  okl. 
Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at  last 
Feels  the  abhorred  approaches  of  old  age, 
Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  King. 
There  go  !  —  Thou  wilt  not  ?     Yet  my  heart  fore- 
bodes 
Danger  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I  know  thee   safe  and  well,  though 

lost 
To  us ;  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in  peace 
To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 
In  vain ;  —  but  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub 
From  ravening,  and  who  govern  Rustum's  son? 
Go,  I  will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  desires." 

So  said  he,  and  dropped  Sohrab's  hand,  and  left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he  lay  ; 
And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woolen  coat 
He  passed,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet. 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and  he  took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  staff,  no  sword  ; 
And  on  his  head  he  set  his  sheepskin  cap. 
Black,  glossy,  curled,  the  fleece  of  Kara-Kul ; 
And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and  called 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 

The  sun  by  this  had  risen,  and  cleared  the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  flittering  sands. 
And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen  filed 
Into  the  open  plain  ;  so  Haman  bade  — 


30  HAWTBOENE  CLASSICS 

Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 

The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 

From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse,  they 

streamed ; 
As  when  *  some  gray  November  morn  the  files, 
In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-necked  cranes 
Stream  over  Casbin  and  the  southern  slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries, 
Or  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed,  southward  bound 
For  the  warm  Persian  seaboard  —  so  they  streamed. 
The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,^  the  King's  guard, 
First,  with  black  sheepskin  caps  and   with  long 

spears ; 
Largfe  men,  larsre  steeds ;  who  from  Bokhara  come 
And  Khiva,  and  ferment  the  milk  of  mares. 
Next,  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of  the  sonth. 
The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 
And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian  sands ; 
Light  men  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only  drink 
The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 
And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse,  who  came 
From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service  owned ; 
The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 
And  close-set  skull  caps ;  and  tliose  wilder  liordes 
Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern  waste, 
Kalmucks  and  unkempt  Kuzzaks,  tribes  who  stra}/ 
Nearest  the  Pole,  and  wandering  Kirgliizzes, 
Who  come  on  shagg}'  ponies  from  Pamere ; 
These  all  filed  out  from  camp  into  the  plain. 


SOTIEAB   AND   BUSTUM  31 

And  on  the  other  side  the  Persians  formed ;  — 
First  a  light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they  seemed, 
The  llyats  of  Khorassan,  and  behind. 
The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot, 
Marshaled  battalions  bright  in  burnished  steel. 
But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came, 
Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the  front. 
And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost  ranks. 
And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians,  saw 
That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back, 
He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he  came, 
And   checked   his    ranks,   and  fixed  them  Avhere 

they  stood. 
And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and  said  : 

"  Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars,  hear ! 
Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to-day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to  man." 

As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 
When  the  dew  glistens  on  the  pearled  ears, 
A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for  joy  — 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa  said, 
A  thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons  ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they  loved. 

But  as  a  troop  of  peddlers,  from  Cabool, 
Cross  underneatli  the  Indian  Caucasus, 
That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of  milk  snow  ; 
Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they  pass 
Long  flocks  of  traveling  birds  dead  on  the  snow, 


32  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Choked  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they  themselves 
Slake    their   parched   throats  with   sugared  mul- 
berries — 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their  breath, 
For    fear   they  should    dislodge  the   o'erhanging 

snows  — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with  fear. 

And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came  up 
To  counsel  ;   Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  ruled  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King ; 
These  came  and  counseled,  and  then  Gudurz  said  : 

"  Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  challenge  up, 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this  youtli. 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
But  Rustum  came  last  night  ;   aloof  he  sits 
And  sullen,  and  has  pitched  his  tents  apart. 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to*his  ear 
The  Tartar  challenge  and  this  young  man's  name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  challenge  up." 

So  spake  he  ;  and  Ferood  stood  forth  and  cried  : 
"  Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said  I 
Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man." 
He  spake  :  and  Peran-Wisa  turned,  and  strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his  tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz  ran. 
And    crossed   the    camp   which   lay   behind,   and 

reached. 
Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's  tents. 


SOHBAB  AND  BUSTUM  33 

Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering  gay, 
Just  pitched  ;  the  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 
Was  Rustum's,  and  his  men  lay  camped  around. 
And  Gudurz  entered  Rustum's  tent,  and  found 
Rustum  ;  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but  still 
The  table  stood  before  him,  charged  with  food  — 
A  side  of  roasted  sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread. 
And  dark-green  melons ;  and  there  Rustum  sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist. 
And  played  with  it  ;  but  Gudurz  came  and  stood 
Before  him  ;   and  he  looked,  and  saw  him  stand, 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up  and  dropped  the  bird, 
And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and  said : 

"  Welcome  !  these  eyes  could  see  no  better  sight. 
What   news?    but    sit   down   first,    and   eat   and 
drink." 

But  Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent-door,  and  said  : 
"  Not  now  !   a  time  will  come  to  eat  and  drink. 
But  not  to-day  ;  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at  gaze ; 
For  from  the  Tartars  is  a  challenge  brought 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion — and  thou  know'st  his 

name  — 
Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid.^ 
O  Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young  man's ! 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart  ; 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's  chiefs  are  old. 
Or  else  too  weak ;  and  all  eyes  turned  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we  lose  !  " 


34  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

He  spoke ;   but  Rustum  answered  with  a  smile  : 
"  Go  to  !  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older ;  if  the  3'oiing  are  weak,  the  King 
Errs  strangely  ;  for  the  King,  for  Kai  Khosroo, 
Himself  is  young,  and  honors  younger  men, 
And  lets  the  aged  molder  in  their  graves. 
Rustum  he  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the  young  — 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts,  not  I. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's  fame  ? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son,''' 
And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I  have  — 
A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war. 
And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-haired  Zal, 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his  herds. 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armor  up. 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak  old  man, 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have  got, 
And  rest  my  age,  and  liear  of  Sohrab's  fame. 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless  kings. 
And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw  sword 
no  more." 

He  spoke,  and  smiled ;  and  Gudurz  made  reply  : 
"  What  then,  O  Rustum,  will  men  say  to  this, 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and  seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most  he  seeks, 
Hidest  thy  face  ?  Take  heed  lest  men  should  say  : 
'  Like  some  old  miser,  Rustum  hoards  his  fame. 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men.' " 


SOHBAB   AND  RUSTUM  35 

And,  greatl}^  moved,  then  Rustum  made  reply : 
"  O  Gudurz,  wherefore  dost  thou  say  such  words  ? 
Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to  say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or  famed, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me  ? 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself  ? 
lint  who  for  men  of  naught  would  do  great  deeds? 
Come,  thou  shalt  see  how  Rustum  hoards  his  fame  ! 
But  I  will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain  arms ; 
Let  not  men  say  of  Rustum,  he  was  matched 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 

He  spoke,  and  frowned;    and   Gudurz   turned, 
and  ran 
Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear  and  joy  — 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum  came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent  door,  and  called 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his  arms, 
And  clad  himself  in  steel ;  the  arms  he  chose 
Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  device, 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And,  from  the  fluted  spine  atop,  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  waved,  a  scarlet  horsehair  plume. 
So  armed,  he  issued  forth ;  and  Ruksh,  his  horse. 
Followed  him  like  a  faithful  liound  at  heel  — 
Ruksh,  whose  renown  was  noised  through  all  the 

earth, 
The  horse,  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him  home, 
And  reared  him ;  a  bright  bay,  with  lofty  crest, 


36  HAWTHORNE  CLASSIC'S 

Diglit  with  a  saddlecloth  of  broidered  green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground  were  worked 
All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters  know. 
So  followed,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and  crossed 
The  camj),  and  to  the  Persian  host  appeared. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with  shouts 
Hailed  ;   bat  the  Tartars  knew  not  wlio  he  was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on  shore. 
By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  in  the  blue  waves,  at  night. 
Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls, 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands  — 
So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Rustum  came. 

And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  advanced. 
And  Sohrab  armed  in  Haman's  tent,  and  came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 
Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man's  corn, 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing  corn, 
And  in  the  midst  a  stubble,  short  and  bare  — 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with  spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  toward  tlie  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he  came. 

As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's  morn, 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor  drudge 
Who  with  numb  blackened  fingers  makes  her  fire  — 
At  cockcrow,  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn, 
When   the    frost    flowers    the   whitened  window- 
panes  — 


SOHRAB    AND   RU8TUM  37 

And  wonders  liow  she  lives,  and  wliat  the  thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be  ;   so  Rustum  eyed 
The  unknown  adventurous  Youth,  who  from  afar 
Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs ;  long  he  perused 
His  spirited  air,  and  wondered  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  seemed,  tenderly  reared ; 
Like    some    young    cypress,    tall,    and    dark,    and 

straight, 
Which  in  a  queen's  secluded  garden  throws 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf. 
By  midnight,  to  a  bubbling  fountain's  sound. 
So  slender  Sohrab  seemed,  so  softly  reared. 
And  a  deep  pity  entered  Rustum's  soul 
As  lie  beheld  him  coming ;   and  he  stood, 
And  beckoned  to  him  with  his  hand,  and  said  : 

"  O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  heaven  is  soft, 
And  warm,  and  pleasant ;  but  the  grave  is  cold  ! 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead  grave. 
Behold  me  !    I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron. 
And  tried ;   and  I  have  stood  on  many  a  field 
Of  blood,  and  I  liave  fought  with  many  a  foe  — 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  saved. 
O  Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on  death  ? 
Be  governed  !  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and  come 
To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  ^  to  me, 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die  ! 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou." 

So  he  spake,  mildly  ;   Sohrab  heard  his  voice, 
The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum,  and  he  saw 


38         -  HAWTHOBNE   CLASSICS 

His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand, 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief 
Hath  bailded  on  the  waste  in  former  years 
Against  the  robbers,  and  he  saw  that  head, 
Streaked   with  its  first    gray  hairs ;  —  hope   filled 

his  soul. 
And  he  ran  forAvard  and  embraced  his  knees,  • 
And  clasped  his  hand  within  his  own,  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  by  thy  father's  head  !  by  thine  own  soul! 
Art  thou  not  Rustum  ?  speak  !  art  thou  not  he  ?  " 

But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneeling  youth. 
And  turned  away,  and  spake  to  his  own  soul : 

"Ah    me,    I    muse    what   this   young  fox  may 
mean  ! 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks. 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say  :   '•  Rustum  is  here  !  ' 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes, 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight. 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  courteous  gifts, 
A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a  feast-tide,  in  Afrasiab's  hall, 
In  Saraarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry  : 
'  I  challenged  once,  when  the  two  armies  camped 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight  ;   but  they 
Shrank,  only  Rustum  dared;   then  he  and  I 
Changed  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms  away.' 
So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  applaud ; 
Then  were  the  chiefs  of  Iran  shamed  through  me.' 


SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM  39 

And  then  lie  turned  and  sternly  spake  aloud: 
"  Rise  !  wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  question  thus 
Of  Kustum  ?     I   am  here,  whom  thou  hast  called 
By    challenge    forth ;   make   good  thy  vaunt,    or 

yield  ! 
Is  it  with  Rustum  only  thou  wouldst  fight  ? 
Rash  boy,  men  look  upon  Rustum's  face  and  flee  ! 
For  well  1  know,  that  did  great  Rustum  stand 
Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  revealed. 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting  more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this  — 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul  : 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt  and  yield. 
Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till  winds 
Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer  floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away."" 

He  spoke  ;   and  Sohrab  answered,  on  his  feet : 
"  Art  thou  so  fierce?     Thou  will  not  fright  me  so  ! 
I  am  no  girl  ;   to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum  stand 
Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting  then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand  here. 
Begin !  thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread  than  I, 
And  thou  art  proved,  I  know,  and  I  am  young. 
But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath  of  Heaven. 
And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  knowest  sure 
Thy  victory,  yet  tliou  canst  not  surely  know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea. 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  fate. 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to  fall. 


40  HAWTHOBlSfE   CLASSICS 

And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 

Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea, 

Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of  death, 

We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us  know  ; 

Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 

He  spoke,  and  Rustum  answered  not,  but  hurled 
His  spear  ;   down  from  the  shoulder,  down  it  came, 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk, 
That  long  has  towered  in  the  airy  clouds. 
Drops  like  a  plummet  ;   Sohrab  saw  it  come, 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash  ;  the  spear 
Hissed,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the  sand. 
Which  it  sent  Hying  wide  ;  —  then  Sohrab  threw 
In  turn,  and  full  struck   Rustum's  shield  ;   sharp 

rang,   . 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned  the  spear. 
And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none  but  he 
Could  wield  ;  an  unlopped  trunk  it  was,  and  huge. 
Still    rough  — •  like    those    which   men   in  treeless 

plains 
To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded  rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
t^y  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter  time 
Hath  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack. 
And  strewn  the   channels  with  torn  boughs — so 

hucre 
The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and  struck 
One  stroke  ;   but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside, 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  andtlie  club  came 
Thundering  to  earth,  and  leapt  from  Rustum's  hand. 


SOTIRAB   AND   RUSTUM  41 

And  Rustuin  followed  his  own  l)low,  and  fell 

To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched   the 

sand  ; 
And  now   might    Sohrab    have     unsheathed    his 

sword, 
And  pierced  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he  lay 
Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with  sand  ; 
lUit  he  looked  on,  and  smiled,  nor  l)ared  his  sword. 
But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and  said  : 
"  Thou   strik'st   too  hard  !    that  club    of  thine 

will  float 
Upon  the  summer  floods,  and  not  my  bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth  !  not  wroth  am  I  ; 
No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my  soul. 
Thou  say'st,  thou  art  not  Rustuui  ;   be  it  so  ! 
Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my  soul  ? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too  — 
Have  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves. 
And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men  ; 
But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touched  before. 
Are  they   from   Heaven,  these  softenings  of  the 

heart  ? 
O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  Heaven  ! 
Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry  spears, 
And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 
And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like  friends, 
And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's  deeds. 
There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host. 
Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel  no  pang  ; 
Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 


42  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

May st  fight;  figlit  th&m,  when  they  confront  thy 

spear  ! 
Bnt  oh,  let  there  be  peace  'twixt  thee  and  me  !  " 
He  ceased,    but    while   he  spake,  Rustmn    had 

risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage  ;  his  club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regained  his  spear, 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mailed  right  hand 
Blazed  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn  star, 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers  ;  dust  had  soiled 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimmed  his  glittering  arms. 
His  breast  heaved,  his  lips  foamed,  and  twice  his 

voice 
Was  choked  with  rage  ;  at  last  these  words  broke 

way  : 
"  Girl!  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with  thy  hands! 
Curled  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet  words  ! 
Fight,  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no  more  ! 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont  to 

dance  ; 
But  on  the  Oxus  sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  wlio  make  no  play 
Of  war  ;   I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and  wine  ! 
Remember  all  thy  valor  ;   try  thy  feints 
And  cunning  !   all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone  ; 
Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both  the  hosts 
With    thy    light    skipping   tricks,    and  thy  girl's 

wiles." 


SOHEAB  AND   RUBTUM  43 

He  spoke,  andSolirab  kindled  at  his  taunts,^ 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword  ;  at  once  they  rushed 
Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds, 
One   from    the    east,    one    from    the   west ;    their 

shields 
Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  wood-cutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn. 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees  —  such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took  part 
In  that  unnatural  conflict ;   for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  heaven,  and  darked  the  sun 
Over  the  lighters'  heads ;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the  plain, 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrapped  the  pair. 
In  gloom    they    twain    were    wrapped,  and   they 

alone  ; 
For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 
Stood  in  broad  dayliglit,  and  the  sky  was  pure, 
And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in    the  gloom  they  fought,  with   bloodshot 

eyes 
And   laboring  breath ;   first   Rustum    struck   the 

shield 
Which    Sohrab    held    stiff    out ;    the    steel-spiked 

spear 
Rent  the   tough  plates,  but   failed  to   reach   the 

skin, 


44  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry  groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum's  hehn 
Nor  clove  its   steel    quite  through;    but  all  the 

crest 
He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horsehair  plume, 
Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust ; 
And  Rustum  bowed  his  head  ;   but  then  the  srloom 
Grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air. 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud;   and   Ruksh,  the 

horse. 
Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful  cry ;  — 
No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pained  desert  lion,  who  all  day 
Hath  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side,. 
And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand. 
The  two  liosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked  for  fear. 
And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not,  Ijut  rushed  on, 
And  struck  again  ;   and  again  Rustum  bowed 
His  head ;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like  glass. 
Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm. 
And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then  Rustum  raised  his  head ;  his  dreadful  eyes 
Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing  spear. 
And  shouted  :   "  Rustum  !  "  —  Sohrab  heard  that 

shout. 
And  shrank  amazed :  back  he  recoiled  one  step. 
And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the    advancing 

form  ; 
And  then  he  stood  bewildered,  and  he  dropped 


SOHBAB   AND    TtUSTUM  45 

His  covering  sliield,  and  the  spear  pierced  liis  side. 
He    reeled,    and,    staggering    back,    sank   to    the 

ground  ; 
And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the  wind  fell. 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted  all 
The  cloud ;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the  pair  ;  — 
Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet, 
And  Solirab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 

Then,  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began  : 
"  Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 
A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse, 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent ; 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come  down 
Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would  move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go  ; 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy  fame. 
To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man  ! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old." 

And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  replied  : 
"  Unknown  thou  art  ;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is  vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful  man  ! 
No  !     Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  were  I  matched  Avith  ten  such  men  as  thee. 
And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was. 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm  — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee, 


46  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my  shield 
Fall  ;  and  thy  spear  transfixed  an  unarmed  foe. 
And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult'st  my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble  to  hear  : 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death  ! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world, 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee  !  " 

As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath  found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest. 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake. 
And  pierced  her  with  an  arrow  as  she  rose. 
And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far  off  ;  —  anon  her  mate  comes  winging  back 
From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  descries 
His  huddling  young  left  sole  ;  at  that,  he  checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweej^s 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest  ;   but  she 
Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers — ^  never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it ; 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by  — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his  loss. 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but  stood 
Over  his  djdng  son,  and  knew  him  not. 

But,  Avith  a  cold,  incredulous  voice,  he  said: 
"  What  prate  is  this  of  fatliers  and  revenge  ? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 


SOHBAB   AND   EUSTUM  4:1 

And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied  : 
"  All  yes,  he  had  !  and  that  lost  son  am  1. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear, 
Reach  Rustnm,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries  long, 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far  from  here  ; 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him  leap 
To  arms,  and  cry  tV)r  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son  ! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance  be? 
Oh,  could  I  live  till  I  that  grief  had  seen  ! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her. 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells 
With  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  grows  gray 
With  ao-e,  and  rules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp. 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is  done. 
But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited  up. 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear  ; 
And  then  will  that  defenseless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more, 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe, 
By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 

He  spoke  ;  and  as  he  ceased,  he  wept  aloud. 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He    spoke;     but    Rustum    listened,    plunged    in 

thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back   names   he 
knew ; 


48  HAWTHORNE   CLASSICS 

For  he  liiul  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 

Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him, 

Had  been  a  l^nny  girl,  no  boy  at  all  — 

So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 

Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in  arms. 

And  so  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 

By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum's  son ; 

Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 

So    deemed    he :    yet    he    listened,    plunged    in 

thought ; 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  briglit  rocking  Ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  ]noon  ;  tears  gathered  in  liis  eyes  ; 
For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth. 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture ;  as,  at  dawn, 
The  shepherd  from  his  mountain  lodge  descries 
A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun. 
Through  many  rolling  clouds  —  so  Rustum  saw 
His  youth  ;   saw  Sohrab's  mother,  in  her  bloom ; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved  well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair  cliild 
With  joy,  and  all  the  pleasant  life  the}^  led. 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer  time  — 
The  castle  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful  hills 
In  Ader-baijan.     And  he  saw  that  youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand. 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth  which  by  the  scythe 
Of  an  unskillful  gardener  has  been  cut. 


SOHBAB   AND  BUSTUM  49 

Mowing  the  gardun  grassplots  near  its  bed, 
And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  pnrple  bloom. 
On  the  mown,  dying  grass  —  so  Sohrab  lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 
And  Rustum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and  said : 

"  O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well  have 

loved ! 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false  —  thou  art  not  Rustum's  son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son ;   one  child  he  had  — 
But  one  —  a  girl ;   who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of  us  — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war." 

But  Sohrab  answered  him  in  wrath ;   for  now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fixed  spear  grew  fierce, 
And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel. 
And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die  — 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe  ; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said : 

"Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my  words? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men. 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
The  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave. 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore." 

He  spoke ;     and   all   the    blood   left    Rustum's 
cheeks. 
And  his  knees  tottered,  and  he  smote  his  hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 


50  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

That  the  hard  iron  corselet  clanked  aloud ; 
And  to  his  heart  he  pressed  the  other  hand, 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said  : 

"  Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could  not  lie  ! 
If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's  son." 

Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab  loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his  arm. 
And  showed  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Pricked ;   as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain  vase, 
An  emperor's  gift  —  at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And    all  day  long,   and,   when,  night  comes,  the 

lamp 
Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin  hands  — 
So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's  seal. 
It  was  that  griftin,  which  of  old  reared  Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to  die, 
A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks ; 
Him   that  kind  creature   found  and  reared,   and 

loved  — 
Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  image  on  his  arm, 
And  himself  scanned  it  long  with  mournful  eyes, 
And  then  he  touched  it  with  his  hand,  and  said  : 

"  How  say'st  thou  ?    Is  that  sign  the  proper  sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?  " 

He  spoke ;  but  Rustum  gazed,  and  gazed,  and 
stood 
Speechless;   and  then  he  uttered  one  sharp  cry  : 


SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM  51 

"  O  boy  —  thy  father  I  "  —  and    his  voice  choked 

there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  passed  before  his  eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to  earth. 
But  Sohrab  crawled  to  where  he  lay,  and  cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  lips, 
And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  stroked  his  cheeks, 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life ;   and  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his  eyes, 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror  ;  and  he  seized 
In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around. 
And  threw  it  on  ids  head,  and  smirched  his  hair, — 
I  lis  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering  arms  ; 
And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook  his  breast. 
And  his  sobs  choked   him  ;   and  he  clutched    his 

sword. 
To  draw  it  and  forever  let  life  out. 
But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his  hands, 
And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and  said : 

"  Father,  forbear  !   for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  ^^  which  at  my  l)irth  was  written  down 
In   heaven,    and    thou   art   heaven's   unconscious 

hand. 
Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee  ;  and  thy  heart  spoke  too, 
I  know  it !   but  fate  trod  those  promptings  down 
Under  its  iron  heel ;  fate,  fate  engaged 
The  strife,  and  hurled  me  on  my  father's  speai. 
l>ut  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this !     I  find 
My  father ;  let  me  feel  tliat  I  have  found  I 


52  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 

My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my  cheeks, 

And  wash    them  with   thy  tears,  and   say :   '  My 

son ! ' 
Quick  !   quick  !   for  numbered  are  my  sands  of  life, 
And  swift;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this  field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away  — 
Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 
But  it  was  writ  in  heaven  that  this  should  be." 

So  said  he,  and  his  voice  released  the  heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth ;  he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept  aloud, 
And  kissed  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both  the  hosts, 
When  they  saw  Rustum's  grief ;  and  Ruksh,  the 

horse. 
With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground  and  mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute  woe 
First  to  the  one  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from    his  dark,  compassionate 

eyes. 
The  big  warm  tears  rolled  down,  and  caked  the 

sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and  said : 
"  Ruksh,  now  thou  grievest ;  but,  O  Ruksh,  thy 

feet 
Should  then  have  rotted  on  their  nimble  joints. 
When  first  they  brought  thy  master  to  this  field  ! " 
But  Sohrab  looked  upon  the  horse,  and  said  : 
"  Is  this,  then,  Ruksh  ?     How  often,  in  past  days, 


SOHEAB  AND  BUSTUM  53 

My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave  steed, 

My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse !  and  said, 

That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and  thee. 

Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  ! 

O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I ; 

For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go. 

And  snuffed  the  breezes  of  my  father's  home. 

And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 

And  seen  the  River  of  Helmund,  and  the  Lake 

Of  Zirrah ;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 

Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given  thee  food. 

Corn  in  a  golden  platter  soaked  with  wine, 

And  said  :  '  O  Ruksh  !  bear  Rustum  well,'  —  but  I 

Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  furrowed  face, 

Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 

Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund  stream  ; 

But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and  seen 

Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 

Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste. 

And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents ;  and  only  drunk 

The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 

Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their  sheep. 

The  northern  Sir  ;  and  this  great  Oxus  stream, 

The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 

Then,  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  bewailed : 
"  Oh,  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me  ! 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o'er  my  head !  " 

But,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab  replied  : 
"  Desire  not  that,  my  father  !  thou  must  live. 


54  HAWTUORNE  CLASSICS 

For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live, 

As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 

Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 

And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age ; 

Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 

But  come !  thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 

Which  follow  me ;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these ! 

Let  me  entreat  for  them  ;  what  have  they  done  ? 

They  followed  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my  star. 

Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 

But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send  with  them, 

But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 

And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me, 

Thou,  and  the  snow-haired  Zal,  and  all  thy  friends. 

And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth. 

And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 

And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all. 

That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 

May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  cry  : 

'  Sohrab,  the  mighty  Rustum's  son,  lies  there, 

Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill !  ' 

And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 

And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum  replied : 
"  Fear  not !   as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my  son, 
So  shall  it  be ;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents. 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  thee. 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my  friends. 
And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth. 


SOIIRAB   AND  RUSTUM  55 

And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones, 
And  pLant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all, 
And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 
And  I  will  spare  thy  host ;  yea,  let  them  go  ! 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace ! 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  that  I  have  ever  slain 
Might  be  once  more  alive  ;  my  bitterest  foes, 
And  they  who  were   called    champions    in   their 

time. 
And   through  whose    death   I   won    that  fame   I 

have  — 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown, 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  sc^i,  my  son  ! 
Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself. 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand. 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine. 
Not  thou  of  mine  !  and  I  might  die,  not  thou ; 
And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan ; 
And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not  thine  ; 
And  say  :  '  O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore. 
For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  met'st  thine  end!  ' 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth, 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age. 
And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood." 

Then,  at  the  point  of  "death,  Sohrab  replied  : 
"  A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man ! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace ;  only  not  now. 
Not  yet !  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day 


56  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 
From  laying  tliy  dear  master  in  his  grave." 

And  Rustum  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face,  and  said : 
"  Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that  sea  ! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 

He  spoke ;   and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him,  and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and  eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguisli ;   but  the  blood 
Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flowed    with    the    stream ;  —  all    down    his    cold 

white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and  soiled. 
Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gathered,  on  their  native  bank. 
By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with  haste 
Lidoors  from  the  sun's  eye ;  his  head  drooped  low, 
His  limbs  grew  slack ;  motionless,  white,  he  lay  — 
White,  with  eyes  closed ;  only  when  heavy  gasps, 
Deep  heavy  gasps  quivering  through  all  his  frame, 
Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened  them. 
And  fixed  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face ; 
Till   now   all   strength  was   ebbed,   and  from   his 

limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away. 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left. 
And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delightful  world. 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Solirab  lay  dead ; 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman's  cloak 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM  57 

Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
As  those  bhick  granite  pillars,  once  high-reared 
By  Jerashid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights  of  step 
Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain  side  — 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn  waste, 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair. 
And  darkened  all ;   and  a  cold  fog,  with  night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.      Soon  a  hum  arose, 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog ;   for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took  their  meal  ; 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,  the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge ; 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on,^^ 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land. 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved. 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hushed  Chorasmian  waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon  ;  —  he  flowed 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,    and    bright,    and    large ;    then    sands 

begin 
To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams. 
And  split  his  currents ;   that  for  many  a  league 
The  shorn  and  parceled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles  — 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 


68  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pamere, 

A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer  —  till  at  last 

The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 

His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 

And   tranquil,  from  whose   floor  the  new-bathed 

stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 


ENOCH  ABDEN  59 


ENOCH   ARDEN 

BY   ALFRED    TENNYSON 

Long  lines  of  cliff 'breaking;  have  left  a  chasm  ; 
And  in  the  chasm  iare  foam  and  j^ellow  sands ; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In  cluster  ;  then  a  moldered  church  ;   and  higher 
A  lono-  street  climbs  to  one  tall-towered  mill ; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it* a  gray  down^ 
With  Danish  barrows ;  and  a  hazel-wood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green;  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beachi  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 
And  Philip  Ray,  the  miller's  only  son. 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck,  played 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore. 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing-nets. 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  up-drawn ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand  [ 
To  watch  them  overflowed,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  jdaily  washed  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff  : 
In  this  the  children  played  at  keeping  house. 


60  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  ^  was  mistress  ;  but  at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week  : 
"This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife." 
"  Mine  too,"  said  Philip,  "  turn  and  turn  about:  " 
When,  if  they  quarreled,  Enoch  stronger-made 
Was  master  :  then  would  Philip,  his  blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears, 
Shriek  out  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company. 
And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her  sake. 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood  past. 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending  sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixed  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl  ;   and  Enoch  spoke  his  love, 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence ;  and  the  girl 
Seemed  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him  ; 
But  she  loved  Enoch  ;  though  she  knew  it  not, 
And  would  if  asked  deny  it.     Enoch  set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost. 
To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a  home 
For  Annie  :   and  so  prospered  that  at  last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 
A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten  coast 
Than  Enoch.      Likewise  had  he  served  a  year 
On  board  a  merchantman,  and  made  himself 


ENOCH  ARDEN  61 

Full  sailor  ;  and  he  thrice  had  plucked  a  life 

From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down-streaming  seas  : 

And  all  men  looked  upon  him  favoi-ably  : 

And  ere  he  touched  his  one-and-twentieth  May, 

He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a  home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  halfAvay  up 

The  narrow  street  that  clambered  toward  the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday. 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and  small. 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.     Philip  stayed 
(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  behind  ;   but  as  he  climbed  the  hill. 
Just  where  the  prone  ^  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in-hand. 
His  large  -gray  eyes  and  Aveather-beaten  face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire. 
That  burned  as  on  an  altar.     Philip  looked, 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his  doom ; 
Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together,  groaned. 
And  slipped  aside,  and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  in  merrymaking, 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and  passed 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hanger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang  the  bells. 
And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy  years, 


62  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Seven  liappy  years  of  health  and  competence, 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil  ; 

With  children  ;   first  a  daughter.     In  him  Avoke, 

With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble  wish 

To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 

And  give  his  child  a  better- bringing-up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  hers  ;  a  wish  renewed. 

When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 

The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes. 

While  Enoch  Avas  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 

Or  often  journeying  landward ;   for  in  truth 

Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean-spoil 

In  ocean-smelling  osier,*  and  his  face, 

Rough-reddened  with  a  thousand  winter  gales, 

Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  knoAvn, 

But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 

Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-Avhelp, 

Arid  peacock  yew-tree  of  the  lonely  Ilall,^ 

Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things  human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Opened  a  larger  haven  :   thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  l)y  land  or  sea ; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipped  and  fell : 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him ; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 


ENOCH  A  EDEN    ■  63 

Taking  hev  bread  and  theirs  and  on  him  fell, 
Although  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing  man,^ 
Yet  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  and  gloom. 
He  seemed,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth. 
And  her  he  loved,  a  beggar :  then  he  prayed 
"Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to  me." 
And  while  he  prayed,  the  master  of  that  ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mischance. 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued  him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 
And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.     Would  he  go  ? 
There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she  sailed. 
Sailed  from  this  port.     Would   Enoch  have  the 

place  ? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it. 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  appeared 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offing  :  "*  yet  the  wife  — 
When  he  was  gone  —  the  children  —  what  to  do? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his  plans  ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her  well  — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weathered  in  her  ! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his  horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  —  then  with  what  she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth  in  trade 


64  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their  wives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he  Avas  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder?  go 
This  voyage  more  than  once  ?  yea  twice  or  thrice - 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft. 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated, 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all  : 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie  pale, 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-born. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry, 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his  limbs. 
Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled  fatherlike. 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring  had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear. 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renewed 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  su])plicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring,  but  her. 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in  vain  ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it  through. 


ENOCH  ABDEN  65 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea-friend, 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set  his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home, 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and  ax, 
Augfer  and  saw,  while  Annie  seemed  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrilled  and  rang. 
Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful  hand,  — 
The  space  was  narrow,  —  having  ordered  all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused ;   and  he. 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the  last. 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enocli  faced  this  morning  of  farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.     All  his  Annie's  fears. 
Save,  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to  him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave,  God-fearing  man 
Bowed  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in-God, 
Prayed  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him  :  and  then  he  said 
"  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clean  fire  for  me. 
For  ril  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know  it." 
Then  lightly  rocking  baby's  cradle  "  and  he. 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  ^  —  for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it  — 


66  n AWT  HORN  E  CLASSICS 

God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my  knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign  parts, 
And  make  him  merrj',  when  I  come  home  again. 
Come,  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I  go." 

Him  running  on  thus  liopefully  she  heard. 
And  almost  hoped  herself  ;  but  when  he  turned 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things. 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she  heard. 
Heard  and  not  heard  him ;  as  the  village  girl, 
Who  sets  her  jpitcher  underneath  the  spring, 
Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for  her. 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke  "  O  Enoch,  you  are  wise  ; 
And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more." 

"  Well   then,"    said   Enoch,    "  I   shall   look   on 
yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day)  ;  get  you  a  seaman's  glass, 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your  fears." 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments  came, 
"  Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  comforted. 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  T  must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me  :  or  if  you  fear 


ENOCH  ARBEN  67 

Cast  all  your  cares  on  God ;  that  anchor  holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  ?  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him  ?  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His  :  He  made  it."^ 

Enoch  rose, 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping  wife, 
And  kissed  his  wonder-stricken  little  ones ; 
Hut  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who  slept 
After  a  nisrht  of  feverous  wakefulness, 
When  Annie  would  have  raised  hini  Enoch  said 
"  Wake  him  not ;  let  him  sleep  ;  how  should  the 

child 
Remember  this?  "  and  kissed  him  in  his  cot. 
But  Annie  from  her  baby's  forehead  dipt 
A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it :  this  he  kept 
Through  all  his  future ;  but  now  hastily  caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went  his  way. 

She,  when  the  day  that  Enoch  mentioned  came, 
Borrowed  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain :  perhaps 
She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye ; 
Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremulous  ; 
She  saw  him  not :  and  while  he  stood  on  deck 
Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

Ev'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing  sail 
She  watched  it  and  departed  weeping  for  him  ; 
Then,  though   she   mourned   his   absence    as   his 
grave. 


68  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 
And  still  foreboding  "  What  would  Enoch  say?" 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for  less 
Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she  sold  : 
She  failed  and  saddened  knowing  it ;  and  thus. 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came. 
Gained  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance. 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-born  and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  though  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mother's  care  :  nevertheless. 
Whether  her  business  often  called  her  from  it. 
Or  through  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most, 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  ^^  who  best  could  tell 
What  most  it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it  was. 
After  a  lingering,  —  ere  she  was  aware,  — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away.^^ 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hungered  for  her  peace, 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  looked  upon  her), 
Smote  him,  as  having  ke[)t  aloof  so  long. 
"  Surely,"  said  Philip,  '•'  I  may  see  her  now, 


ENOCH  ABDEN  69 

May  be  some  little  comfort ; "  therefore  went, 
Past  through  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
I\aused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Then  sti'uck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one  opening, 
Entered  ;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief. 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one. 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
I)Ut  turned  her  own  toward  the  wall  and  wept. 
Tlien  l*hilip  standing  up  said  falteringly 
"Annie,  I  want  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

He  spoke ;  the  passion  in  her  moaned  reply 
*"  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am  !  "  half  abashed  him  ;  yet  unasked. 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her  : 

"  I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he  wished, 
Enoch,  your  husband :   I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us  —  a  strong  man  : 
For  wliere  he  fixed  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 
To  do  the  thing  he  willed  and  bore  it  through. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way. 
And  leave  you  lonely?  not  to  see  the  world  — 
For  pleasure?  —  nay,  but  for  the  wherewithal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  yours :   that  was  liis  wish. 
And  if  he  come  again,  vexed  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were  lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave, 


70  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running  wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.     So,  Annie,  now  — 
Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our  lives  ? 
I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay  — 
For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  —  if  3'ou  will, 
Annie  —  for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 
Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school : 
This  is  the  favor  that  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the  wall 
Answered  "  I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face  ; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me  down ; 
And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks  me  down ; 
But  Enoch  lives ;  that  is  borne  in  on  me  : 
He  will  repa}^  you  :  money  can  be  repaid  ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  asked 
"  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ?" 

There  she  turned, 
She  rose,  and  fixed  her  swimming  eyes  upon  him. 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his  head 
Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  passionately. 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 


ENOCH  ARDEN  71 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and  every  way, 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own. 
Made  himself  theirs  ;  and  though  for  Annie's  sake, 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port,!^ 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish. 
And  seldom  crossed  her  threshold,  yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and  fruit. 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then, 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  offense  of  charitable, 'flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the  waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie's  mind : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came  upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Lio-ht  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him  with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all ; 
From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily ; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were  they  ; 
Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  played  with  him 
And  called  him  Father  Philip.      Philip  gained 
As  Enoch  lost ;   for  Enoch  seemed  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue. 
Going  we  know  not  where  ^^ :   and  so  ten  years, 


72  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native  land, 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  children  longed 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them  ;  then  they  begged 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  called  him)  too : 
Him,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom-dust, 
Blanched  with  his  mill,  they  found ;  and  saying  to 

liim 
"  Come  with  us,  Father  Philip  "  he  denied ; 
But  when  the  children  plucked  at  him  to  go. 
He  laughed,  and  yielded  readily  to  their  wish, 
For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ?  and  they  Avent. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down. 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 
Failed  her  ;  and  sighing,  "  Let  me  rest,"  she  said : 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content ; 
While  all  tlie  younger  ones  with  jubilant  cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumultuously 
Down  through  the  whitening  hazels  made  a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent  or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the  wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remembered  one  dark  hour 


ENOCH  A  EDEN  78 

Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded  life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow  :  at  last  he  said, 
Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  "  Listen,  Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the  wood. 
Tired,  Annie?  "  for  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 
''  Tired  ?  "  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon  her  hands  ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 
'■'■  The  ship  was  lost,"  he  said,  "  the  ship  was  lost  ! 
No  more  of  that  !   why  should  you  kill  yourself 
And  make  tliem  orphans    quite?"      And  Annie 

said 
"  I  thought  not  of  it  :   but  —  I  know  not  why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer  spoke. 
'•'•  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind. 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 
Tliat  though  I  know  not  when  it  first  came  there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.      O  Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance, 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living  ;   well  then  —  let  me  speak  : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting  help  : 
I  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless  —  they  say  that  women  are  so  quick  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have  you  know— 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.      I  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  children  :   I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father  :   I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own  ; 


74  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years. 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  his  creatures.     Think  upon  it : 
For  1  am  well-to-do  — no  kin,  no  care. 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and  yours  : 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our  lives. 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you  know." 

Then  answered  Annie  ;  tenderly  she  spoke  : 
"  You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in  our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you  for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  happier  than  myself. 
Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was  ?  what  is  it  that  you  ask  ?  " 
"  I  am  content,"  he  answered,  "  to  be  loved 
A  little  after  Enoch.''     "  O  "  she  cried. 
Scared  as  it  were,  "  dear  Philip,  wait  a  while  : 
If  Enoch  comes  —  but  Enoch  will  not  come  — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long  : 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year  : 

0  wait  a  little  !  "     Philij)  sadly  said 
"  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little."     "  Nay  "  she  cried 

"  I  am  bound  :  you  have  my  promise — in  a  year: 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide  mine  ?  " 
And  Philip  answered  "  I  will  bide  my  year." 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Pliilip  ghmcing  up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 


ENOCH  ARBEN  '        75 

Pass  from  the  Dauisli  barrow  overhead  ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie,  rose 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  throngh  the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their  spoil  ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his  hand. 
Saying  gently  "'  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to  you. 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.     I  was  wrong, 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are  free." 
Then  Annie  weeping  answered  '•'  I  am  bound." 

She  spoke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it  were, 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  household  ways, 
Even  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words, 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she  knew. 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flashed  again, 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her  face, 
Claiming  her  promise.     "Is  it  a  year  ?"  she  asked. 
"  Yes,  if  the  nuts  "  he  said  ''  be  ripe  again  ; 
Come  out  and  see."     But  she  —  she  put  him  off  — 
So  much  to  look  to  —  such  a  change  —  a  month  — 
Give  her  a  month — she  knew  that  she  was  bound — 
A  month  —  no  more.     Then  Philip  with  his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
"  Take   your   own    time,    Annie,    take    your    own 

time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of  him  ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delay ingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse. 


76  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Trying  liis  truth  and  his  long-sufferance, 
Till  half  another  year  had  slipped  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crossed,  i* 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle  with  her  ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  him  off  to  draw  him  on  ; 
And  others  laughed  at  her  and  Philip  too, 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own  minds, 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.      Her  own  son 
Was  silent,  though  he  often  looked  his  wish  ; 
But  evermore  the  daughter  pressed  upon  her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty  ; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan  ;  and  all  these  things  fell  on 

her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  earnestly 
Prayed  for  a  sign  "  My  Enoch  is  he  gone  ?  " 
Then  compassed  round  by  the  blind  wall  of  night 
Brooked  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her  heart. 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a  light, 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign,i^ 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  tlie  text. 


ENOCH  ABB  EN  11 

"Under  the  palm-tree."     That  was    nothing   to 

her  : 
No  meaning  there  :  she  closed  the  Book  and  slept : 
When  lo  !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 
Under  a  palm-tree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 
"  He  is  gone,"  she  thought,   "  he  is  happy,  he  is 

singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest  :  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be  palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strowing  cried 
'  Hosanna  in  the  highest !  '  "     Here  she  woke, 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly  to  him 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  wed." 
"Then  for  God's  sake,"  he  answered,  "both  our 

sakes, 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang  the  bells, 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seemed  to  fall  beside  her  path. 
She  knew  not  whence ;  a  whisper  on  her  ear. 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  she  to  be  left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ailed  her  then,  that  ere  she  entered,  often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch. 
Fearing  to  enter :  Philip  thought  he  knew  : 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to  her  state, 
Being  with  child  :   but  when  her  child  was  born, 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  her  self  renewed, 


78  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her  heart, 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch?  prosperously  sailed 
The  ship  Good  Fortune,  though  at  setting  forth 
The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward,  shook 
And  almost  overwhelmed  her,  yet  unvexed 
She  slipped  across  the  summer  of  the  world, 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair, 
She  passing  through  the  summer  world  again. 
The  breath  of  heaven  came  continually 
And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and  bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home- voyage  :   at  first  indeed 
Through  many  a  fTiir  sea-circle,  day  by  day. 
Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure-head 
Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  from  her  bows : 
Then  followed  calms,  and  then  winds  variable, 
Then  baffiing,  a  long  course  of  them  ;   and  last 
Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moonless  heavens 
Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  bi'eakers  "  came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  tlie  loss  of  all 
But  Enoch  and  two  others.     Half  the  niglit. 


ENOCH  ARDEN  79 

Buoyed  upon  Hoatiiig  tackle  and.  broken  spars, 
These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at  morn 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance, 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nourishing  roots ; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  taine.^^ 
There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain-gorge 
They  built,  and  thatched  with  leaves  of  palm,  a 

hut. 
Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.     So  the  three. 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness, 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more  than  boy. 
Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and  wreck, 
Lay  lingering  out  a  five-years'  death-in-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.     After  he  was  gone, 
The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem  ; 
And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  himself. 
Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,^"  fell 
Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 
In    those    two    deaths    he    read    God's    warning 
"wait." 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  heaven, 
The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes. 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 


80  HAWTHORNE   CLASSICS 

The  luster  of  the  h)ng-  convolvuluses 

That  coiled  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 

Even  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 

And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world. 

All  these  he  saw ;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 

He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face, 

Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 

The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl. 

The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef. 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branched 

And  blossomed  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave,^^ 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 

A  ship- wrecked  sailor,  Avaiting  for  a  sail : 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  da}- 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead  ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed   themselves   in 

heaven. 
The  hollower-bellowinsr  ocean,  nud  ag-ain 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  —  but  no  sail. 

There  often  as  he  watched  or  seemed  to  watch. 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
A  phantom  made  of  many  phantoms  moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 


ENOCH  ARDEN  81 

Moved  haunting"  people,  things  und  phices,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line  ; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house, 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  lanes. 
The  peacock  yew-tree  and  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  tlie  boat  he  sold,  the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming  downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves, 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-colored  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  ears, 
Thougli  faintly,  merrily  —  far  and  far  away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells ;  ^^ 
Then,  though  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful  isle 
Returned  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  Tliat,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem  all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  liad  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his  own. 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields 
Not  yet  had  perished,  when  his  lonely  doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.      Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling  winds, 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined  course. 
Stayed  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where  she  lay  : 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 


82  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 

The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 

They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 

In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  filled  the  shores 

With   clamor.       Downward    from    his    mountain 

gorge 
Stepped  the  long-haired,  long-bearded  solitary, 
Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely  clad. 
Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiot-like  it  seemed, 
With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 
They  knew  not  what :  and  yet  he  led  the  way 
To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  ran ; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 
And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-bounden  tongue 
Was  loosened,  till  he  made  them  understand; 
Whom,   when  their  casks   were  filled  they  took 

aboard 
And  there  the  tale  he  uttered  brokenly. 
Scarce-credited  at  first  but  more^  and  more. 
Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listened  to  it : 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  passage  home; 
But  oft  he  worked  among  the  rest  and  shook 
His  isolation  from  him.     None  of  these 
Came  from  his  country,  or  could  answer  him. 
If  questioned,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to  know. 
And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  delays, 
The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy;  but  evermore 
His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 
Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 
He  like  a  lover  down  through  all  his  blood 


ENOCH  ABB  EN  83 

Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning-breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall :  ^ 
And  that  same  morning  ofiicers  and  men 
Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 
Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it : 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed  him, 
Even  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sailed  before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any  one. 
But  homeward  —  home  —  what  home?   had  he  a 

home? 
His  home,  he  walked.     Bright  was  that  afternoon. 
Sunny  but  chill ;  till  drawn  through  either  chasm. 
Where  either  haven  opened  on  the  deeps, 
Rolled  a  sea-haze  and  whelmed  the  world  in  gray; 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before. 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and  right 
Of  withered  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  robin  piped 
Disconsolate,  and  through  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it  down  : 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom  ; 
Last,  as  it  seemed,  a  great  mist-blotted  light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having  slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reached  the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were  born ; 


84  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there 

(A  bill  of  sale  gleamed  through  the  drizzle)  crept 

Still  downward  thinking  "  dead  or  dead  to  me  !  " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crossed  antiquity, 
So  propped,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old, 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ;  but  he  was  gone 
Who  kept  it;  and  his  Avidow  Miriam  Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the  house ; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but  now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  garrulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port. 
Not  knowing  —  Enoch  was  so  brown,  so  bowed, 
So  broken  — all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty. 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school, 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her. 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child :  and  o'er  his  countenance 
No  shadow  passed,  nor  motion  :  any  one, 
Regarding,  well  had  deemed  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller  :  only  when  she  closed 
"  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost  " 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically. 


ENOCH  AEDEN  85 

Repeated  muttering  "  cast  away  and  lost ;  " 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  "  lost !  " 

But  Enoch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harassed  him,  and  drove  him  forth, 
At  evening,  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below ; 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house. 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dw^elling  fronted  on  the  street. 
The  latest  house  to  landward ;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  opened  on  the  waste. 
Flourished  a  little  garden  square  and  walled  : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yew-tree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunned  the  middle  walk  and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunned,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 


86  HAWTTIOBNE  CLASSICS 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnished  board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth : 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stooped  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-haired  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  reared  his  creasy  arms. 
Caught  at  and  ever  missed  it,  and  the}^  laughed ; 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  lier  tall  and  strong. 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee. 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happiness. 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place. 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love,  — 
Then  he,  though  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Staggered  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  feared 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry. 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  th6  blast  of  doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 


ENOCH  ARBEN  87 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall. 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  opened  it,  and  closed, 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt  but  that  his 
knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  prayed. 

"  Too  hard   to  bear  !    why  did    they  take   me 
thence  ? 
O  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 
Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer  !  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too !  must  I  not  speak  to  these  ? 
They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray  myself. 
Never :  no  father's  kiss  for  me  —  the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature  failed  a 
little. 
And  he  lay  tranced ;  but  when  he  rose  and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 


88  HAWTHOENE  CLASSICS 

All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  though  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.     His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  liviiig  source  within  the  will, 
And  beating  up  through  all  the  bitter  world, 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea. 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.      '•  This  miller's  wife  " 
He  said  to  Miriam  "  that  you  spoke  about, 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband  lives  ?  " 
"Ay,  ay,  poor  soul "  said  Miriam,  "  fear  enow  ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him  dead. 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort ; "  and  he  thought 
"  After  the  Lord  has  called  me  she  shall  know: 
I  wait  his  time,"  and  Enoch  set  himself, 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his  hand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and  wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or  helped 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks. 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of  those  days ; 
Thus  earned  a  scanty  living  for  himself : 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  liimself, 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life  in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live  ;  and  as  the  year 
Rolled  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  had  returned,  a  languor  came 


ENOCH  ARDEN  89 

Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no  more, 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last  his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 
For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See  through  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despaired  of,  then  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all. 

For  through  that  dawning  gleamed  a  kindlier 

hope 
On  Enoch  thinking  "  after  I  am  gone. 
Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the  last." 
He  called  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said 
"Woman,  I  have  a  secret  —  only  swear. 
Before  I  tell  you  —  swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 
"Dead,"   clamored  the   good  woman,    "hear   him 

talk  ! 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you  round." 
"  Swear  "  added  Enoch  sternly  "  on  the  book." 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam  swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 
"  Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this  town  ?  " 
"  Know  him  ?  "  she  said  "  I  knew  him  far  away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the  street ; 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no  man,  he." 
Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answered  her  ; 
"His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for  him. 


90  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

I  think  I  have  not  three  more  days  to  live ; 

I  am  the  man."     At  which  the  woman  gave 

A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 

"  You  Arden,  you  !   nay,  —  sure  he  was  a  foot 

Higher  than  you  be."     Enoch  said  again 

"  My  God  has  bowed  me  down  to  what  I  am ; 

My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me ; 

Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 

Who    married  —  but    that    name   has  twice  been 

changed  — 
I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 
Sit,  listen."     Then  he  told  her  of  his  voyage, 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back, 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 
And  how  he  kept  it.     As  the  woman  heard, 
Fast  flowed  the  current  of  her  easy  tears. 
While  in  her  lieart  she  yearned  incessantly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven, 
Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his  woes ; 
But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  forbore. 
Saying  only  "  See  your  bairns  before  you  go  ! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  and  arose 
Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch  hung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied : 

"  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the  last, 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again ;   mark  me  and  understand, 
While  I  have  power  to  speak.     I  charge  you  now, 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I  died 


ENOCH  ABDEN  91 

Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her ; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  1  saw 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying  for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blessed  him  too : 
He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead. 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them  come, 
I  am  their  father  ;  but  she  must  not  come. 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after-life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be : 
This  hair  is  his :  she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it, 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these  years. 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my  grave  ; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall  see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss  :  wherefore  when  I  am  gone, 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort  her  : 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her, 
That  I  am  he." 

He  ceased  ;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising  all. 
That  once  again  he  rolled  his  eyes  upon  her 
Repeating  all  he  wished,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this. 
While  Enoch  slumbered  motionless  and  pale. 


92  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  ^Miriam  watched  and  dozed  at  intervals, 

There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea, 

That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 

He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad 

Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "  A  sail !  a  sail  ! 

I  am  saved  ;  "  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke  no  more. 

So  passed  the  strong  heroic  soul  awa)'. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen*  a  costlier  funeral. 


CHRISTABEL  93 


CHRISTABEL 

BY   SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 

'Tis  the  middle  of  niglit  by  tlie  castle  clock, 

And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock, 

Tu-whit !  —  Tu-whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again  !   the  crowing  cock, 

How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich. 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock. 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour ; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls  not  overloud  ; 

Some  say  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark? 
The  night  is  cliilly  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray, 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 


94  HAWTROBNE  CLASSICS 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 
Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 
What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 
A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate? 
She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 
Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 
Dreams  that  made  her  moan  and  leap 
As  on  her  bed  she  laj^  in  sleep ; 
And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 
For  the  soul  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 
She  stole  along,  slie  nothing  spoke. 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak 
But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe ; 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak-tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 

The  lovely  lady  Christabel ! 

It  moaned  as  near  as  near  can  be, 

But  wJiat  it  is  she  cannot  tell.  — 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted  old  oak-tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare  ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek  — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 


CHBISTABEL  95 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high. 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak. 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright. 
Dressed  in  a  silken  robe  of  white. 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone ; 
The  neck  that  made  the  white  robe  wan. 
Her  stately  neck  and  arms  were  bare, 
Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandaled  were. 
And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there, 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 
I  guess  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she  — 
Beautiful  exceedingly  ! 

"  Mary  mother,  save  me  now  !  " 

(Said  Christabel),  "and  who  art  thou?" 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet. 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet :  — 
"  Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness : 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear !  " 
Said  Christabel,  "  How  camest  thou  here  ?  " 


96  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet, 
Did  thns  pursue  her  answer  meet :  — 

"  My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line. 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine  : 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me»  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were  white  : 

And  once  we  crossed  tlie  shade  of  night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 

I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be ; 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced  ywis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five. 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke  : 

He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak ; 

He  swore  they  would  return  in  haste ; 

Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell  — 

I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 

Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand  "  (thus  ended  she), 

"And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee." 

Then  Christabel  stretched  forth  her  hand 
And  comforted  fair  Geraldine  : 


CHRISTABEL  97 

'•'  O  well,  bright  dame  !  may  you  command 

The  service  of  Sir  Leoline ; 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withal 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall." 

She  rose  :  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 

That  strove  to  be  and  were  not  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blessed, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel : 

"  All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  is  silent  as  the  cell ; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health. 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be. 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth. 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy. 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me." 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate ; 

The  erate  that  was  ironed  within  and  witliout 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched  out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain. 

And  Cliristabel  with  might  and  main 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight. 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate : 

Then  the  lady  rose  again, 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 


98  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court :  right  ghxd  they  were. 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 

To  the  lady  by  her  side  ; 

"  Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Whahath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress  !  " 

"  Alas,  alas  !  "  said  Geraldine, 

"I  cannot  speak  for  weariness." 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court  ;  right  glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake. 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make  ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel, 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch  ; 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still. 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 

Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying  ; 

But  when  the  lady  passed  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame  ; 

And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye. 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 


CHRISTABEL  99 

Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline  tall, 
Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall. 
"  O  softly  tread,"  said  Christabel, 
"My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well." 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare. 
And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air. 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer  and  now  in  gloom. 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room. 
And  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath  ! 
And  now  have  reached  the  chamber  door  ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  in  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet. 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain, 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chains 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 

The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim  ; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro. 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight, 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 


100  HAWTHOBNE   CLASSICS 

"  O  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 
I  pray  you  drink  this  cordial  wine  ! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers  ;' 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers." 

"  And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn  ?  " 
Christabel  answered  —  "  Woe  is  me  ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
I  have  heard  the  gray -haired  friar  tell. 
How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say, 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle  bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  ni}^  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear  !  that  thou  wert  here  !  " 

"  I  would,"  said  Geraldine,  "  she  were  !  " 

,But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she  — 
"  Off,  wandering  mother  !     Peak  and  pine  ! 

1  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 
Alas  !  what  ails  poor  Geraldine  ? 

Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye  ? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 
And  why  Avith  hollow  voice  cries  she, 
"  Off,  woman,  off  I  this  hour  is  mine  — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be. 
Off,  woman,  oft" !  'tis  given  to  me." 
Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side. 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue  — 
"  Alas  !  "  said  she,  ''  this  ghastly  ride  — 


CHBISTABEL  101 

Dear  lady  !  it  hath  'wiklered  you  ! " 
The  hidy  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said.  "  'Tis  over  now  !  " 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank  : 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright  : 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see. 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countrie. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake  — 
"  All  they  who  live  in  the  upper  sky, 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel  ! 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  me  befell 
Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try, 
Fair  maiden  to  requite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself  ;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie." 

Quoth  Christabel,  "  So  let  it  be  !  " 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress. 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro. 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close  ; 
So  halfway  from  the  bed  she  rose. 


102  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneatli  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 
And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around  ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast  : 
Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropped  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view. 
Behold  her  bosom  and  half  her  side  — 
A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell  ! 
O  shield  her  !   shield  sweet  Christabel  ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs. 
Ah  !  what  a  stricken  lot  was  hers  ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  halfway 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay. 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay  ; 
Then  suddenly  as  one  defied. 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  maiden's  side  I  — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took. 

Ah  well-a-day  ! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say  : 

"  In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh  a  spell. 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel  ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-morrow. 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow  ; 


CHRISTABEL 


103 


But  vainly  tliou  warrest 
For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare, 
That  in  the  dim  forest 

Thou  heard'st  a  low  moaning, 
And  found'st  a  bright  lady  surpassingly  fair  ; 
And  did'st  bring  her  home  with  thee,  in  love  and 

in  charity, 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp  air. 


104  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


THE   EVE    OF   ST.    AGNES 


BY  JOHN    KEATS 


St.  Asrnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,i  fQp  3^^  \Yis  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen 

grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold ; 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  ^  fingers  while  he 

told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer 

he  saith. 

II 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think   how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and 
mails. 


THE   EVE  OF  ST.    AGNES  105 

III 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flattered^  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no  —  already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'   sake  to 
grieve. 

IV 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft  ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.      Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  head  the  cornice  rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise 
on  their  breasts.* 

V 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

Witli  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  f airily 

The  brain,  new-stuffed,  in  youth,  with  triumphs 

gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 


106  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  turn,  sole-tlioughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As   she    had   heard   old   dames   full  many  times 
declare. 

VI 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  ariglit ; 
As,^  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white  ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward   eyes  for  all  that  they 
desire. 

VII 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fixed  on  tlie  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :   in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired,  not  cooled  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 

VIII 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.    AGNES  107 

The  hallowed-  hour  was  near  at  hand  :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport, 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  faery  fancy,  all  amort,^ 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

IX 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     I^eside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed"    from    moonlight,    stands    he,    and 

implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen, 
Perchance    speak,    kneel,    touch,    kiss  —  in   sooth 
such  thinsfs  have  been. 


"&'^ 


X 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell  : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords  ^ 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  fey'rous  citadel : 
For  him  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 


108  HAWTHORNE   CLASSICS 

XI 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory -headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  liid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  hroad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her  ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !    hie  thee  from  this 

place  : 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty 

race ! 

xir 

"  Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away."  —  "  Ah,  Gossip  dear. 
We're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit. 
And  tell  me  how  "  —  "  Good  Saints  !  not  here, 

not  here : 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 

bier." 

XIII 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.    AGNES  109 

And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day  !  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  -  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

XIV 

"  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve,^'' 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so  :   it  fills  me  with,  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve ! 
God's  help  !   my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night  :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let   me    laugh   awhile,    Pve    mickle   time   to 
grieve." 

XV 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle- book. 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook  ^^ 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of   those    enchantments 
cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


110  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


XVI 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose. 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot  :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start  : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art  : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  Go  !   I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When   my   w^eak  voice    shall  whisper    its   last 

prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard   them,   though  they  be  more   fanged 
than  wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken  churchyard  thing. 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES  111 

Were  never  missed."     Thus  plaining,  doth  she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro, 
So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  liave  lovers  met. 
Since   Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous 
debt.i2 

XX 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame  : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night  :   by  the   tambour 

frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare. 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or    may    I    never    leave    my    grave    among   the 
dead."  ^^ 


112  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


XXI 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed ; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her,  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The    maiden's    chamber,     silken,    hushed    and' 

chaste  ; 
Where  Porphj-ro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her 

brain. 

XXII 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  ^ladeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  frayed 
and  fled. 

XXIII 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or  woe  betide  ! 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.    AGNES  113 

But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  vohible, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  bahiiy  side  ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her 
dell. 

XXIV 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,   and   flowers,   and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

XXV 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And   threw  warm   gules  ^*   on    Madeline's  fair 

breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  pressed. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  dressed, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  :  —  Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 

taint. 


114  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


XXVI 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees, 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one. 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice :  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

XXVII 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day, 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain, 
Clasped   like   a   missal    where    swart    Paynims 

pray,i5 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

XXVIII 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.    AGNES  115 

And  breathed  himself :  then  from  the  ch)set  crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness  ^^ 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stepped. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo  !  —  how 
fast  she  slept. 

XXIX 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  tlie  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  :  — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd, 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon, 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez,  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one. 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

XXXI 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  briglit 


116  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
111  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul    doth 
ache." 

XXXII 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  :  —  'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In    Provence    called     "  La     belle     dame     sans 

mercy:  "  ^^ 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody;  — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon   his  knees   he    sank,    pale  as  smooth-sculp- 
tured stone. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.    AGNES  117 


XXXIV 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep ; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye. 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dream- 
ingly. 

XXXV 

"  Ah,  Porphyro  !  "  she  said,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and 

drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

XXXVI 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 


118  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Bleiideth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost- wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath 
set. 

XXXVII 

'Tis  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !  " 
'Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing," 

XXXVIII 

"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blessed? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil- 
dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX 

"  Hark  !   'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.    AGNES  119 

Arise  —  arise  !   the  morning  is  at  hand  :  — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  :  — 
Let  us  away,  ray  love,  with  happy  speed  ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for 
thee." 

XL 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears  ; 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found. 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,^^  rich  with  horsemen,  hawk,  and  hound. 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide. 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide :  — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans  ; 


120  IIAWTIIOBNE  CLASSICS 


XLII 

And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-gnests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform  : 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


THE  PHI  SON  ER    OF  CllILLON  121 

THE    PRISONER   OF   CHILLON 

BY    LORD    BYRON 


My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night. 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  ; 
My  limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose. 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned  and  barred  —  forbidden  fare  ; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death  ; 
That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake  ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place  ; 
We  were  seven  —  who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age. 
Finished  as  they  had  begun. 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  , 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field. 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed, 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 


122  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 

Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  hist. 

II 
There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mold 
In  Chillon's  ^  dungeons  deep  and  old, 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way. 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left  ; 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp. 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp  : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring. 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing. 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes. 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died. 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

Ill 
They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three  —  yet,  each  alone  ; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 


THE  PRISONER    OF  ClIILLON  123 

We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light  ^ 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight  : 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart, 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth. 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech. 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old. 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone. 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 

A  grating  sound  —  not  full  and  free. 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  : 
It  might  be  fancy —  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

IV 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three. 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ouoflit  to  do  —  and  did  my  best  — 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 

Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 

To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven. 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  ; 

And  truly  might  it  be  distressed 

To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 


124  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

For  he  was  beautiful  as  day  — 
(When  clay  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)  — 
A  polar  clay,  wliich  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone. 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay. 
With  tears  for  nouglit  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 


The  other  ^  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind  ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  :  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine  : 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline  — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine  : 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  clear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf  ; 

To  him  his  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


THE  PRISONER    OF  CHILLON  125 


VI 

Lake  Leman*  lies  by  Chillon's  walls  : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthralls  : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day  ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked  ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky  ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked. 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshockecl, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

VII 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 

I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food  ; 

It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 

For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare. 

And  for  the  like  had  little  care  : 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 


126  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den  ; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mold 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold. 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side  ; 
But  why  delay  the  truth?  —  he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead. 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died  —  and  they  unlocked  his  chain. 
And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begged  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine  —  it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought. 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 
They  coldly  laughed  —  and  laid  him  there 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  lent. 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 


THE  PRISONER   OF  CUILLON  127 


VIII 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour. 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face. 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought. 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free  ; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God!  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  :  — 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread  ; 

But  these  were  horrors  ^  —  this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such  —  but  sure  and  slow  ; 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek. 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak. 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender  —  kind. 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ;  ^ 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 


128  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  ; 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright  ; 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur  —  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise. 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most  ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less  : 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear  — 

I  called,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear  ; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 

I  called,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rushed  to  him  :  —  I  found  him  not, 

/only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

I  only  lived  —  I  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew  ; 

The  last  —  the  sole  —  the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink. 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath  — 

My  brothers  —  both  had  ceased  to  breathe 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 


TBE  PRISON ER   OF  CHILLON  129 

Alas  !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 
I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 
But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive  — • 
A  frantic  feeling  when  we  know 
That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope  —  but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well  —  I  never  knew  — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air. 

And  then  of  darkness  too : 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling —  none  — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray  ; 
It  was  not  night  —  it  was  not  day  — 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight. 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  fixedness  —  without  a  place  ; 
There  were  no  stars  — no  earth  —  no  time  — 
No  check  — •  no  change  —  no  good  —  no  crime  — 
But  silence  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death  ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  ! 


130  UAWTIIORNE  CLASSICS 


A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain,  — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; " 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  ni}^  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery  ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track  ; 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly^  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done. 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree  ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  tilings. 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me  ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more  : 
It  seemed  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again. 
And,  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 


THE  PRISONEE   OF  CHILLON  131 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  percli  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird  !     1  could  not  wish  for  thine  ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise ; 

For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile  — 
I  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me  ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then 'twas  mortal  —  well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown. 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone,  — 
Lone  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud. 
Lone  —  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day. 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere. 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate  ; 
I  know  not  what  liad  made  them  so. 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe. 
But  so  it  was  :  —  my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfastened  did  remain. 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride  ^ 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 


132  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part  ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thouglit  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed. 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 
And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape. 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape  ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child  —  no  sire  —  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery  ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 
For  thought  of  them  had  ^'^  made  me  mad  ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high  ^^ 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

XIII 

I  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same. 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame  ; 


THE  PRISONER    OF  CHILLON  133 

I  saw  their  tlioiisand  years  of  snow 
On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow  ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channeled  ruck  and  broken  bush  ; 
I  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,!^ 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view  ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more. 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing. 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing. 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seemed  joyous  each  and  all  ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methonght  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly  ; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 
And,  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave. 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save,  — 


134  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppressed, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count  —  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote  ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free  ;  '^'■^ 

I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where  ; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watched  tliem  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play. 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  tlian  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place. 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race. 
Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell  ! 
In  quiet  had  we  learned  to  dwell  — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends. 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  :  — •  even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


LADY  GEnALDINE'S   COZTIiTSHIP  135 

LADY  GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP 
A   ROMANCE   OF   THE   AGE 

BY   ELIZABETH   BARRETT    BROWNING 

A  Poet  ivrites  to  his  Friend.     Place  —  A  Room  in 
Wycombe  Hall.     Time  —  Late  in  the  evening. 

Dear  my  friend  and  fellow-student,  I  would  lean 

my  spirit  o'er  you  ! 
Down  the  purple  of   this  chamber   tears   sliould 

scarcely  run  at  will, 
I  am  humbled  who  was  humble.     Friend,  I  bow 

my  head  before  you  : 
You  should  lead  me  to  my  peasants,  but  their  faces 

are  too  still. 

There's  a  lady,  an  earl's  daughter,  —  she  is  proud 

and  she  is  noble, 
And  she  treads  the  crimson  carpet  and  she  breathes 

the  perfumed  air. 
And  a  kingly  blood  sends  glances  up,  her  princely 

eye  to  trouble. 
And  the  shadow  of  a  monarch's  crown  is  softened 

in  her  hair. 

She  has  halls  among  the  woodlands,  she  has  castles 

by  the  breakers. 
She  has  farms  and  she  has  manors,  she  can  threaten 

and  command, 


136  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  the  palpitating  engines  ^  snort  in  steam  across 

her  acres, 
As  they  mark  upon  the  Wasted  heaven  the  measure 

of  the  hind. 

There  are  none  of  England's  daughters  who  can 
show  a  prouder  presence  ; 

Upon  princely  suitors  praying,  she  has  looked  in 
her  disdain. 

She  was  sprung  of  English  nobles,  I  was  born  of 
English  peasants  ; 

What  was  /that  I  should  love  her,  save  for  com- 
petence to  pain  ? 

I  was  only  a  poor  poet,  made  for  singing  at  her 

casement, 
As  the  finches  or  the  thrushes,  while  she  thought 

of  other  things. 
Oh,  she  walked  so  high  above  me,  she  appeared  to 

my  abasement, 
In  her  lovely  silken  murmur,  like  an  angel  clad  in 

wings  ! 

Many  vassals  bow  before  her  as  her  carriage  sweeps 

their  door- ways  ; 
She  has  blest  their  little  children,  as  a  priest  or 

queen  w^ere  she  : 
Far  too  tender,  or  too  cruel  far,  her  smile  upon  the 

poor  was. 
For  I  thought  it  was  the  same  smile  which  she 

used  to  smile  on  me. 


LADT  GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP  137 

She  has  voters  in  the  C'oinmons,^  she  has  lovers  in 

the  palace, 
And  of  all  the  fair  court-ladies,  few  have  jewels 

half  as  fine  ; 
Oft  the  Prince  has  named  her  beauty  'twixt  the 

red  wine  and  the  chalice  : 
Oh,  and  what  was  I  to  love  her  ?  my  beloved,  my 

Geraldine  ! 

Yet  I  could  not  choose  but  love  her  :  I  was  born 

to  poet-uses. 
To  love  all  things  set  above  me,  all  of  good  and 

all  of  fair. 
Nymphs  of  mountain,  not  of  valley,  we  are  wont 

to  call  tlie  Muses  ; 
And   in  nymplioleptic  climbing,  poets  pass  from 

mount  to  star. 

And  because  I  was  a  poet,  and  because  the  public 

praised  me. 
With  a  critical  deduction  for  the  modern  writer's 

fault, 
I    could    sit   at   rich  men's  tables,  —  though   the 

courtesies  that  raised  me, 
Still  suggested  clear  between  us  the  pale  spectrum 

of  the  salt. 3 

And  they  praised  me  in  her  presence  ;  ■ —  "  Will 
your  book  appear  this  summer  ?  " 

Then  returning  to  each  other  —  "Yes,  our  plans 
are  for  the  moors." 


138  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Then  with  whisper  dropped  behind  me — "There 

he  is  !  the  hitest  comer. 
Oh,  she  only  likes  his  verses  !  what  is  over,  she 

endures. 

"  Quite  low-born,  self-educated  !  somewhat  gifted 

though  by  nature, 
And  we  make  a  point  of  asking  him,  —  of  being 

very  kind  — 
You  may  speak,  he  does  not  hear  you  !  and  besides, 

he  writes  no  satire,  — 
All   these    serpents    kept   by  charmers  leave  the 

natural  sting  behind." 

I  grew  scornfuller,  grew  colder,  as  I  stood  up  there 
among  them. 

Till  as  frost  intense  will  burn  you,  the  cold  scorn- 
ing scorched  my  brow ; 

When  a  sudden  silver  speaking,  gravely  cadenced, 
over-rung  them. 

And  a  sudden  silken  stirring  touched  my  inner 
nature  through. 

I  looked  upward  and  beheld  her  :  with  a  calm  and 

regnant  spirit. 
Slowly  round  she  swept  her  eyelids,  and  said  clear 

before  them  all  — 
"  Have  you  such  su23erfluous  honor,  sir,  that  able 

to  confer  it 
You  will  come  down,  Mr.  Bertram,  as  my  guest  to 

Wycombe  Hall?" 


LADY  GEnALDINE\S   COURTSHIP  139 

Here  she  paused  ;  she  had  been  paler  at  the  first 
word  of  her  speaking, 

But  because  a  silence  followed  it,  blushed  some- 
what, as  for  shame. 

Then,  as  scorning  her  own  feeling,  resumed  calmly 
—  "I  am  seeking 

More  distinction  than  these  gentlemen  think  worthy 
of  my  claim. 

"  Ne'ertheless,  you  see,  I  seek  it  —  not  because  I 

am  a  woman," 
(Here  her  smile  sprang  like  a  fountain  and,  so, 

overflowed  her  mouth) 
"  But  because  my  woods  in  Sussex  have  some  purple 

shades  at  gloaming 
Which  are  worthy  of  a  king  in  state,  or  poet  in  his 

youth. 

"  I  invite  you,  Mr.  Bertram,  to  no  scene  for  worldly 

speeches  — 
Sir,  I   scarce  should  dare  —  but  only  where  God 

asked  the  thrushes  first- : 
And  if  you  will  sing  beside  them,  in  the  covert  of 

my  beeches, 
I   will  thank   you  for   the  woodlands,  —  for   the 

human  world,  at  worst." 

Then  she  smiled  around  right  childly,^  then  she 

gazed  around  right  queenly, 
And   I   bowed  —  I  could  not  answer  ;   alternated 

light  and  gloom  — 


140  HAWTHOENE  CLASSICS 

While  as  one  who  quells  the  lions,  with  a  steady 

eye  serenely, 
She,  with  level  fronting  eyelids,  passed  out  stately 

from  the  room. 

Oh,  the  blessed  woods  of  Sussex,  I  can  hear  them 

still  around  me, 
With  their  leafy  tide  of  greenery  still  rippling  up 

the  wind. 
Oh,  the  cursed  woods  of  Sussex  !  where  the  hunter's 

arrow  found  me. 
When  a  fair  face  and  a  tender  voice  had  made  me 

mad  and  blind  ! 

In  that  ancient  hall  of  W3'^combe  thronged  the 
numerous  guests  invited, 

And  the  lovely  London  ladies  trod  the  floors  with 
gliding  feet ; 

And  their  voices  low  with  fashion,  not  with  feel- 
ing,^ softly  freighted 

All  the  air  about  the  windows  with  elastic  laugh- 
ters sweet. 

For  at  eve  the  open  windows  flung  their  light  out 
on  the  terrace 

Which  the  floating  orbs  of  curtains  did  with  grad- 
ual shadow  sweep. 

While  the  swans  upon  the  river,  fed  at  morning 
by  the  heiress. 

Trembled  downward  through  their  snowy  wings 
at  music  in  their  sleep. 


LADY  GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP  141 

And  there  evermore  was  music,  both  of  instrument 

and  singing, 
Till  the  finches  of  the  shrubberies  grew  restless  in 

the  dark  ; 
But  the   cedars  stood   ap  motionless,   each   in    a 

moonlight-ringing, 
And  the  deer,  half  in  the  glimmer,  strewed  the 

hollows  of  the  park. 

And  though  sometimes  she  would  bind  me  with 
her  silver-corded  speeches 

To  commix  my  words  and  laughter  with  the  con- 
verse and  the  jest. 

Oft  I  sat  apart  and,  gazing  on  the  river  through 
the  beeches, 

Heard,  as  pure  the  swans  swam  down  it,  her  pure 
voice  o'er-float  the  rest. 

In  the  morning,  horn  of  huntsman,  hoof  of  steed 

and  laugh  of  rider. 
Spread  out  cheery  from  the  court-yard  till  we  lost 

them  in  the  hills. 
While  herself  and  other  ladies,  and  her  suitors  left 

beside  her, 
Went  a-wandering  up  the  gardens  through  the 

laurels  and  abeles. 

Thus,  her  foot  upon  the  new-mown  grass,  bare- 
headed, with  the  flowing 

Of  the  virginal  white  vesture  gathered  closely  to 
her  throat, 


142  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck  jnst  quick- 
ened by  her  going, 

And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for  air,  and  doubt- 
ing if  to  float,  — 

With    a  bunch  of  dewy  maple,  which  her   right 

hand  held  above  her, 
And  which  trembled  a  green  shadow  ^  in  betwixt 

her  and  the  skies, 
As  she  turned  her  face  in  going,  thus,  she  drew 

me  on  to  love  her, 
And  to  worship  the  divineness  of  the  smile  hid  in 

her  eyes. 

For  her  eyes  alone  smile  constantly  ;  her  lips  have 

serious  sweetness, 
And  her  front  is  calm,  the  dimple  rarely  ripples 

on  the  cheek  ; 
lUit  her  deep  blue  eyes  smile  constantly,  as  if  they 

in  discreetness 
Kept  the  secret  of  a  happy  dream  she  did  not  care 

to  speak. 

Thus  she  drew  me  the  first  morning,  out  across 

into  the  garden, 
And  I  walked  among  her  noble  friends  and  could 

not  keep  behind. 
Spake  she  unto  all  and  unto  me  —  "  Behold,  I  am 

the  warden 
Of  the  song-birds  in  these  lindens,  wliich  are  cages 

to  their  mind. 


LADY  GERALBINE'S   COURTSHIP  143 

"But  within  this  swarded  circle  into  which   the 

lime-walk  brings  us, 
Whence  the  beeches,  rounded  greenly,  stand  away 

in  reverent  fear, 
I  will  let  no  music  enter,  saving  what  the  fountain 

sings  us 
Which  the  lilies  round  the  basin  may  seem  pure 

enough  to  hear. 

"  The  live  air   that   waves   the   lilies   waves   the 

slender  jet  of  water 
Like  a  holy  thought  sent  feebly  up  from  soul  of 

fasting  saint  : 
Whereby  lies  a  marble  Silence,  sleeping,  (Lough  "< 

the  sculptor  wrought  her) 
So  asleep  she  is  forgetting  to  say  Hush  !  —  a  fancy 

quaint. 

"  Mark  how  heavy  white  her  eyelids  !  not  a  dream 

between  them  lingers  ; 
And  the  left  hand's  index  droppeth  from  the  lips 

upon  the  cheek  : 
While  the  right  hand,  —  with  the  symbol-rose  held 

slack  within  the  fingers,  — 
Has  fallen  backward  in  the  basin — yet  this  Silence 

will  not  speak  ! 

"  That  the  essential  meaning  growing  may  exceed 

the  special  symbol, 
Is  the  thought  as  I  conceive  it  :  it  applies  more 

high  and  low. 


144  HAWTHORNE   CLASSICS 

Our  true  noblemen  will  often  through  right  noble- 
ness grow  humble, 
And  assert  an  inward  honor  by  denying  outward 

show."  8 

"  Nay,  3'our  Silence,"  said  I,    "  truly,    holds   her 

symbol  rose  but  slackly. 
Yet  she  holds  it,  or  would  scarcely  be  a  Silence  to 

our  ken  : 
And  your  nobles  wear  their  ermine  on  the  outside, 

or  walk  blackly, 
In  the  presence  of  the  social  law  as  mere  ignoble 

men. 

"  Let  the  poets  dream  such  dreaming  !   madam,  in 

these  British  islands 
'Tis  the  substance  that  wanes  ever,  'tis  the  symbol 

that  exceeds. 
Soon  we  shall  have  naught  but  symbol :  and,  for 

statues  like  this  Silence, 
Shall   accept  the  rose's  image  —  in  another  case, 

the  weed's." 

"Not    so    quickly,"    she    retorted,  —  "I    confess, 

where'er  you  go,  you 
Find  for  things,  names  —  shows  for  actions,  and 

pure  gold  for  honor  clear : 
But  when  all  is  run  to  symbol  in  the  Social,  I  will 

throw  you 
The  world's  book  which  now  reads  dryly,  and  sit 

down  with  Silence  here." 


LADY  GERALDINE'8   COURTSHIP  145 

Half  ill  playfulness  she  spoke,  I  thought,  and  half 
in  indignation  ; 

Friends  who  listened,  laughed  her  words  off,  while 
her  lovers  deemed  her  fair  : 

A  fair  woman,  flushed  with  feeling,  in  her  noble- 
lighted  station 

Near  the  statue's  white  reposing  —  and  both 
bathed  in  sunny  air  ! 

With  the  trees  round,  not  so  distant  but  you 
heard  their  vernal  murmur. 

And  beheld  in  light  and  shadow  the  leaves  in  and 
outward  move. 

And  the  little  fountain  leaping  toward  the  sun- 
heart  to  be  warmer. 

Then  recoiling  in  a  tremble  from  the  too  much 
light  above. ^ 

'Tis  a  picture  for  remembrance.  And  thus,  morn- 
ing after  morning. 

Did  I  follow  as  she  drew  me  by  the  spirit  to  her 
feet. 

Why,  her  greyhound  followed  also!  dogs  —  we 
both  were  dogs  for  scorning  — 

To  be  sent  back  when  she  pleased  it  and  her  path 
lay  through  the  wheat. 

And  thus,  morning  after  morning,  spite  of  vows 

and  spite  of  sorrow. 
Did  I  follow  at  her  drawing,  while  the  week-days 

passed  along, 


146  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Just  to  feed  the  swans  this  noontide,  or  to  see  the 

fawns  to-morrow, 
Or  to  teach  the  hill-side  echo  some  sweet  Tuscan 

in  a  song. 

Aye,  for  sometimes  on  the  hill-side,  while  we  sate 

down  in  the  gowans, 
With  the  forest  green  behind  us  and  its  sliadow 

cast  before. 
And  the  river  running  under,  and  across  it  from 

the  rowans 
A  brown  partridge  whiri'ing  near  us  till  we  felt 

the  air  it  bore,  — 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did  I  read  aloud 
the  poems 

Made  to  Tuscan  flutes,  or  instruments  more  vari- 
ous of  our  own; 

Read  the  pastoral  parts  of  Spenser,  or  the  subtle 
interflowings 

Found  in  Petrarch's  sonnets  —  here's  the  book,  the 
leaf  is  folded  down  ! 

Or  at  times  a  modern  volume,  Wordsworth's  sol- 

einn-thoughted  idyl, 
Howitt's    ballad- verse,  or    Tennyson's   enchanted 

reverie, — 
Or  from  Browning  some  "  Pomegranate,"'  ^'^  which, 

if  cut  deep  down  the  middle, 
Shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinctured,  of  a  veined 

humanity. 


LADY  geraldine's  coubtsijip        147 

Or  at  times  I  read  there,  hoarsely,  some  new  poem 

of  my  making  : 
Poets  ever  fail  in  reading  their  own  verses  to  their 

worth, 
For  the  echo  in  yon  breaks  upon  the  words  which 

you  are  speaking, 
And  the  chariot  wheels  jar  in  the  gate  through 

which  you  drive  them  forth. 

After,  when  we  were  grown  tired  of  books,  the 
silence  round  us  flinging 

A  slow  arm  of  sweet  compression,  felt  with  beat- 
ings at  the  breast. 

She  would  break  out  on  a  sudden  in  a  gush  of 
woodland  singing, 

Like  a  child's  emotion  in  a  god  —  a  naiad  tired  of 
rest. 

Oh,  to  see  or  hear  her  singing  !  scarce  I  know 
which  is  divinest. 

For  her  looks  sing  too  —  she  modulates  her  gest- 
ures on  the  tune. 

And  her  mouth  stirs  with  the  song,  like  song ; 
and  when  the  notes  are  finest, 

'Tis  the  eyes  that  shoot  out  vocal  light  and  seem 
to  swell  them  on. 

Then  we  talked  —  oh,  how  we  talked  !  her  voice, 

so  cadenced  in  the  talking, 
Made    another   singing  —  of    the   soul  !  a    music 

without  bars  : 


148  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

While  the  leafy  sounds  of    woodlands  humming 

round  where  we  were  walking, 
Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet,  as  skies  about 

the  stars. 

And  she  spake  such  good  thoughts  natural,  as  if 

she  always  thought  them  ; 
She  had  sympathies  so  rapid,  open,  free  as  bird  on 

branch. 
Just  as  ready  to  fly  east  as  west,  whichever  way 

besought  them, 
In  the  birchen-wood  a  chirrup,  or  a  cock-crow  in 

the  grange. 

In  her  utmost  lightness  tiiere  is  truth  —  and  often 

she  speaks  lightly. 
Has  grace  in  being  gay  which  even  mournful  souls 

approve. 
For  the  root   of   some  grave    earnest  thought  is 

understruck  so  rightly 
As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  waving  flowers 

above. 

And  she  talked  on  —  we  talked,  rather  !  upon  all 
things,  substance,  shadow. 

Of  the  sheep  that  browsed  the  grasses,  of  the 
reapers  in  the  corn. 

Of  the  little  children  from  the  schools,  seen  wind- 
ing through  the  meadow, 

Of  the  poor  rich  world  beyond  them,  still  kept 
poorer  by  its  scorn. 


LADY  GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP  149 

So,  of  men,  and  so,  of  letters  —  books  are  men  of 

higher  stature, 
And    the    only  men  that  speak  aloud    for  future 

times  to  hear  ; 
So,  of  mankind  in  the  abstract,  which  grows  slowly 

into  nature, 
Yet  will  lift  the  cry  of  "  progress,"  as  it  trod  from 

sphere  to  sphere. 

And  her  custom  was  to  praise  me  when  I  said,  — 

"  The  Age  culls  simples,  ^^ 
With  a  broad  clown's  back  turned  broadly  to  the 

glory  of  the  stars. 
We  are  gods  by  our  own  reck'ning.  and  may  well 

shut  up  the  temples. 
And  wield  on,  amid  the  incense-steam,  the  thunder 

of  our  cars. 

"  For  we  throw  out  acclamations  of  self -thanking, 
self-admiring. 

With,  at  every  mile  run  faster,  — '  O  the  wondrous, 
wondrous  age  ! ' 

Little  thinking  if  we  work  our  souls  as  nobly  as 
our  iron. 

Or  if  angels  will  commend  us  at  the  goal  of  pil- 
grimage. 

"  Why,  what  is  this  patient  entrance  into  nature's 
deep  resources 

But  the  child's  most  gradual  learning  to  walk  up- 
right without  bane  ? 


150  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

When  we  drive  out,  from  the  cloud  of  steam,  ma- 

jestical  white  horses, 
Are  we  greater  than  the  first  men  who  led  black 

ones  by  the  mane  ?  ^^ 

"  If  we  trod  the  deeps  of  ocean,  if  we  struck  the 
stars  in  rising", 

If  we  wrapped  the  globe  intensely  with  one  hot 
electric  breath, 

'Twere  but  power  within  our  tether,  no  new  spirit- 
power  comprising. 

And  in  life  we  were  not  greater  men,  nor  bolder 
men  in  death." 

She  was  patient  with  my  talking  ;  and  I  loved  her, 

loved  her  certes 
As  I  loved  all  heavenly  objects,  with  uplifted  eyes 

and  hands  ; 
As  I   loved   pure  inspirations,  loved   the   graces, 

loved  the  virtues. 
In  a  Love  content  with  writing  his  own  name  on 

desert  sands. 

Or  at  least  I  thought  so,  purely  ;  thought  no  idiot 

Hope  was  raising 
Any  crown  to  crown  Love's  silence,  silent  Love 

that  sate  alone  : 
Out,  alas !  the  stag  is  like  me,  he  that  tries  to  go 

on  grazing. 
With  the  great  deep  gun-wound  in  his  neck,  then 

reels  with  sudden  moan. 


LADY  GEBALDINE'S   COURTSHIP  151 

It  was  thus  I  reeled.  I  told  you  that  her  hand 
had  many  suitors  ; 

But  she  smiles  them  down  imperially  as  Venus  did 
the  waves, 

And  with  such  a  gracious  coldness  that  they  can- 
not press  their  futures 

On  tlie  present  of  her  courtesy,  which  yieldingly 
enslaves. 

And  this  morning  as  I  sat  alone  within  the  inner 

chamber 
With  the  great  saloon  beyond  it,  lost  in  pleasant 

thought  serene. 
For  I  had  been  reading  Camoens,  that  poem  you 

remember 
Which  his  lady's  eyes  are  praised  in  as  the  sweetest 

ever  seen. 

And  the  book  lay  open,  and  my  thought  flew  from 

it,  taking  from  it 
A  vibration  and  impulsion  to  an  end  beyond  its 

own, 
As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when  a  child  would 

overcome  it, 
Springs  up    freely   from   his    claspings  and    goes 

swinging  in  the  sun. 

As  I  mused  I  heard  a  murmur ;  it  grew  deep  as  it 

grew  longer, 
Speakers  using  earnest  language  —  "  Lady  Geral- 

dine,  you  ivould!''' 


152  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And    I   heard    a   voice   that   pleaded,  ever  on  in 

accents  stronger, 
As  a  sense  of  reason  gave  it  power  to  make  its 

rhetoric  good. 

Well  I  knew  that  voice  ;  it  was  an  earl's,  of  soul 

that  matched  his  station, 
Soul  completed  into  lordship,  might  and  right  read 

on  his  brow  ; 
Very  finely  courteous  ;   far  too  proud  to  doubt  his 

domination 
Of  the  common  people,  he  atones  for  grandeur  by 

a  bow. 

High  straight  forehead,  nose  of  eagle,  cold  blue 

eyes  of  less  expression 
Than    resistance,  coldly    casting  off  the  looks  of 

other  men, 
As    steel,  arrows  ;   unelastic    lips  which    seem    to 

taste  possession 
And  be  cautious  lest  the  common  air  should  injure 

or  distrain. 

For   the    rest,  accomplished,    upright,  —  aye,  and 

standing  by  his  order 
With  a  bearing  not  ungraceful  ;   fond  of  art  and 

letters  too  ; 
Just    a    good    man    made  a  proud    man, —  as  the 

sandy  rocks  that  border 
A  wild  coast,  by  circumstances,  in  a  regnant  ebb 

and  flow. 


LADY  GERALDINE\S   COURTSHIP  153 

Thus,  I  knew  that  voice,  I  heard  it,  and  I  could 

not  help  the  hearkening  : 
In  the  room  I  stood  up  blindly,  and  my  burning 

heart  within 
Seemed  to  seethe  and  fuse  my  senses  till  they  ran 

on  all  sides  darkening, 
And  scorched,  weighed  like  melted  metal  round 

my  feet  that  stood  therein. 

And    that  voice,  I   heard  it   pleading,  for   love's 

sake,  for  wealth,  position, 
For  the  sake  of  liberal  uses  and  great  actions  to  be 

done  — 
And  she  interrupted  gently,  "Nay,  my  lord,  the  old 

tradition 
Of  your  Normans,  by  some  worthier  hand    than 

mine  is,  should  be  won." 

"•  Ah,  that  white  hand  !  "  he  said  quickly,  —  and 

in  his  he  either  drew  it 
Or  attempted  —  for  with  gravity  and  instance  she 

replied, 
"  Nay  indeed,  my  lord,  this  talk  is  vain,  and  we 

had  best  eschew  it 
And  pass  on,  like  friends,  to  other  points  less  easy 

to  decide," 

What  he  said  again  I  know  not ;  it  is  likely  that 
his  trouble 

Worked  his  pride  up  to  the  surface,  for  she  an- 
swered in  slow  scorn, 


154  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

"And   your   lordship   judges    rightly.     Whom   I 

marry,  shall  be  noble, 
Aye,  and  wealthy.     I  shall  never  blush  to  think 

how  he  was  born." 

There,  I  maddened  !  her  words  stung  me.     Life 

swept  through  me  into  fever, 
And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonished,  sprang  full- 

statured  in  an  hour. 
Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish,  with  apoca- 

ly^^tic  NEVER, 

To  a  Pythian  height  ^^  dilates  you,  and  despair 
sublimes  to  power  ? 

From  my  brain  the  soul-wings  budded,  waved  a 
flame  about  my  body. 

Whence  conventions  coiled  to  ashes.  I  felt  self- 
drawn  out,  as  man. 

From  amalgamate  false  natures,  and  I  saw  the 
skies  grow  ruddy 

With  the  deepening  feet  of  angels,  and  I  knew 
what  spirits  can. 

I  was  mad,  inspired  —  say  either  !   (anguish  work- 

eth  inspiration) 
Was  a  man  or  beast  —  perhaps  so,  for  the  tiger 

roars  when  speared  ; 
And  I  walked  on,  step  by  step  along  the  level  of 

my  passion  — 
Oh,  my  soul  !  and  passed  the  doorway  to  her  face, 

and  never  feared. 


LADY  GERALDINE'S  COURTSHIP  155 

Jle  had  left  her,  peradventure,  when  my  footstep 
proved  my  coming, 

But  for  her  —  she  half  arose,  then  sate,  grew  scar- 
let and  grew  pale. 

Oh,  she  trembled  !  'tis  so  always  with  a  worldly 
man  or  woman 

In  the  presence  of  true  spirits  ;  what  else  can  they 
do  but  quail  ? 

Oh,  she  fluttered  like  a  tame  bird,  in  among  its 

forest-brothers 
Far  too  strong  for  it  ;  then  drooping,  bowed  her 

face  upon  her  hands  ; 
And  I  spake  out  wildly,  fiercely,  brutal  truths  of 

her  and  others  : 
/,  she  planted  in  the  desert,  swathed  her,  windlike, 

with  my  sands. 

I   plucked   up   her   social   fictions,    bloody-rooted 

though  leaf-verdant, 
Trod  them  down  with  words  of  shaming,  —  all  the 

purple  and  the  gold. 
All  the  "  landed    stakes  "  and  lordsliips,  all  that 

spirits  pure  and  ardent 
Are  cast  out  of  love  and  honor  because  chancing 

not  to  hold. 

"  For  myself  I  do  not  argue,'"  said  I,  "  though  I 

love  you,  madam, 
But  for  better  souls  that  nearer  to  the  height  of 

yours  have  trod  : 


156  UAWrilORNE   CLASSICS 

And  this  age  shows,   to  my  thinking,  still   more 

infidels  to  Adam 
Than  directly,  by  profession,  simple  infidels  to  God. 

"Yet,   O   God,"   I   said,  "O  grave,"  I  said,   "O 

mother's  heart  and  bosom. 
With  whom  first  and   last  are  equal,  saint  and 

corpse  and  little  child  ! 
We  are  fools  to  your  deductions,  in  these  figments 

of  heart-closing  ; 
We  are  traitors  to  your  causes,  in  these  sympathies 

defiled. 

"  Learn  more  reverence,  madam,  not  for  rank  or 
wealth  —  that  needs  no  learning. 

That  comes  quickly,  quick  as  sin  does,  aye,  and  cul- 
minates to  sin  ; 

But  for  Adam's  seed,  man  !  Trust  me,  'tis  a  clay 
above  your  scorning, 

With  God's  image  stamped  upon  it,  and  God's 
kindlinsr  breath  within. 


"to 


"What   right   have   you,  madam,  gazing  in  your 

palace  mirror  daily, 
Getting  so  by  heart  your  beauty  which  all  others 

must  adore, 
While  you   draw  the  golden  ringlets  down  your 

fingers,  to  vow  gayly 
You  will  wed  no  man  that's  only  good  to  God,  and 

nothing  more  ? 


LADY  GEBALBINE'S   COURTSHIP  157 

"  Why,  what  right  have  you,  made  fair  by  that 

same  God,  the  sweetest  woman 
Of  all  women  He  has  fashioned,  with  your  lovely 

spirit  face 
Which  would  seem  too  near  to  vanish  if  its  smile 

Avere  not  so  human. 
And  your  voice  of  holy  sweetness,  turning  common 

words  to  grace, 

"  What  right  can  you  have,  God's  other  works  to 

scorn,  despise,  revile  them 
In  the  gross,  as  mere  men,  broadly  —  not  as  rioble 

men,  forsooth,  — 
As  mere  Parias  of  the  outer  world,  forbidden  to 

assoil  them 
In  the  hope  of  living,  dying,  near  that  sweetness 

of  your  mouth  ? 

"  Have   you   any  answer,   madam  ?     If    my  spirit 

were  less  earthly ,i* 
If  its  instrument  were  gifted  Avith  a  better  silver 

string, 
I  would   kneel   down  where   I  stand,  and  say  — 

Behold  me  !   I  am  worthy 
Of  thy  loving,  for  I  love  thee.     I  am  worthy  as  a 

kinsr. 


"&• 


"  As  it  is  —  your  ermined  pride,  I  swear,  shall  feel 

this  stain  upon  her. 
That  J,  poor,  weak,  tossed  with  passion,  scorned 

by  me  and  you  again. 


158  UAWTIIOENE  CLASSICS 

Love  you,  madam,  dare  to  love  you,  to  my  grief 
and  your  dishonor, 

To  my  endless  desolation,  and  your  impotent  dis- 
dain !  " 

More   mad    words    like    these  —  mere    madness  ! 

friend,  I  need  not  write  them  fuller, 
For  I  hear  my  hot  soul  dropping  on  the  lines  in 

showers  of  tears. 
Oh,  a  woman  !   friend,  a  woman  !   why,  a  beast  ^^ 

had  scarce  been  duller 
Than    roar    bestial    loud    complaints    against    the 

shining  of  the  spheres. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  pause.  I  stood  all  vibrat- 
ing with  thunder 

Which  my  soul  had  used.  The  silence  drew  her 
face  up  like  a  call. 

Could  you  guess  Avhat  word  she  uttered  ?  She 
looked  up,  as  if  in  Avonder, 

With  tears  beaded  on  her  lashes,  and  said  — 
"  Bertram  I  "  —  It  was  all. 

If  she  had  cursed  me,  and  she  might  have,  or  if 
even  Avith  queenly  bearing 

Which  at  need  is  used  by  women,  she  had  risen 
up  and  said, 

"  Sir,  you  are  my  guest,  and  therefore  I  have 
given  you  a  full  iiearing : 

Now,  beseech  you,  clioose  a  name  exacting  some- 
what less,  instead !  "  — 


LADY  GEBALDINE\S    COURTSHIP  159 

I  had  borne  it :    but  that    "  Bertram  "  —  why,  it 

lies  there  on  the  paper 
A  mere  word,  without  her  accent,  and  you  cannot 

judge  the  weight 
Of  the  calm  which  crushed  my  passion :  I  seemed 

drowning  in  a  vapor  ; 
And  lier  gentleness  destroyed  me  whom  her  scorn 

made  desolate. 

So,  struck  backward  and  exhausted  by  that  inward 
flow  of  passion 

Which  had  rushed  on,  sparing  nothing,  into  forms 
of  abstract  truth. 

By  a  logic  agonizing  through  unseemly  demon- 
stration. 

And  by  youth's  own  anguish  turning  grimly  gray 
the  hairs  of  youth,  — 

By  the  sense  accursed  and  instant,  that  if  even  I 
spake  wisely 

I  spake  basely  —  using  truth,  if  what  I  spake  in- 
deed was  true. 

To  avenge  wrong  on  a  woman  —  her,  who  sate 
there  weighing  nicely 

A  poor  manhood's  worth,  found  guilty  of  such 
deeds  as  I  could  do  !  — 

By  such  wrong  and  woe  exhausted  —  what  I  suf- 
fered and  occasioned,  — 

As  a  wild  horse  through  a  city  runs  with  lightning 
in  his  eyes, 


160  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  then  dashing  at  a  church's  cokl  and  passive 

wall,  impassioned, 
Strikes    the    death    into    his    burning    brain,    and 

blindly  drops  and  dies  — 

So  I  fell,  struck  down  before  her  —  do  you  blame 
me,  friend,  for  weakness  ? 

'Twas  my  strength  of  passion  slew  me  !  —  fell  be- 
fore her  like  a  stone  ; 

Fast  the  dreadful  world  rolled  from  me  on  its 
roaring  wheels  of  blackness  : 

When  the  light  came  I  was  lying  in  this  chamber 
and  alone. 

Oil,  of  course  she  charged  her  lackeys  to  bear  out 

the  sickly  burden. 
And  to  cast  it  from  her  scornful  sight,  Init  not 

beyond  the  gate ; 
She  is  too  kind  to  be  cruel,  and  too  haughty  not 

to  pardon 
Such  a  man  as  I  ;   'tAvere  something  to  be  level  to 

her  hate. 

But  for  me — you  now  are  conscious  why,  my 
friend,  I  write  this  letter, 

How  my  life  is  read  all  backward,  and  the  charm 
of  life  undone. 

I  shall  leave  her  house  at  dawn  ;  I  would  to-night, 
if  I  were  better  — 

And  I  cliarge  my  soul  to  hold  ray  l)ody  strength- 
ened for  the  sun. 


LADY  GERALDINE'S   COUBTSHIP  161 

When  tlie  sun  has  dyed  the  oriel,  I  depart,  with 

no  hist  gazes, 
No  weak  moanings,  (one  word  onl}',  left  in  writing 

for  her  hands,) 
Out  of  reach  of  all  derision,  and  some  unavailing 

praises, 
To  make  front  against  this  anguish  in  the  far  and 

foreign  lands. 

Blame  me  not.     I  would  not  squander  life  in  grief 

—  I  am  abstemious. 

I  but  nurse  ray  spirit's  falcon  that  its  wing  may 

soar  again. 
There's  no  room  for  tears  of  weakness  in  the  blind 

eyes  of  a  Phemius  : 
Into  work  the  poet  kneads  them,  and  he  does  not 

die  till  then. 

CONCLUSION 

Bertram  finished  the  last  pages,  while  along  the 

silence  ever 
Still  in  hot  and  heavy  splashes  fell  the  tears  on 

every  leaf- 
Having  ended  he  leans  backward  in  his  chair,  with 

lips  that  quiver 
From  the  deep  unspoken,  aye,  and  deep  unwritten 

thoughts  of  grief. 

Soh  !  how  still  the  lady  standeth !     'Tis  a  dream 

—  a  dream  of  mercies  ! 


162  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

'Twixt  the  purple  lattice-curtains  how  she  stand- 

etli  still  and  pale  I 
'Tis  a  vision,  sure,  of  mercies,  sent  to  soften  his 

self-curses,^^ 
Sent  to  SAveep  a  patient  quiet  o'er  the  tossing  of 

his  wail. 

"  Eyes,"  he   said,  "  now  throbbing   through  me  ! 

are  ye  eyes  that  did  undo  me  ? 
Shining    eyes,  like  antique   jewels  set  in  Parian 

statue-stone  ? 
Underneath  that  calm  white  forehead  are  ye  ever 

burning  torrid 
O'er  the  desolate  sand-desert  of  my  heart  and  life 

undone? " 

With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in  the  air  the 
purple  curtain 

Swelleth  in  and  swelleth  out  around  her  motion- 
less pale  brows. 

While  the  gliding  of  the  river  sends  a  rippling 
noise  forever 

Through  the  open  casement  whitened  by  the 
moonlight's  slant  repose. 

Said  he  —  "  Vision  of  a  lady  !  stand  there  silent, 

stand  there  steady  ! 
Now  I  see  it  plainly,  plainly,  now  I  cannot  hope 

or  doubt  — 


LADY  GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP  163 

There,  the  brows  of  mild  repression — there,  the 

lips  of  silent  passion, 
Curved   like    an  archer's  bow  to  send  the  bitter 

arrows  out." 

Ever,    evermore  the  while  in  a   slow  silence  she 

kept  smiling, 
And  approached  him  slowly,  slowdy,  in  a  gliding 

measured  pace  ; 
With  her  two  white  hands  extended  as  if  praying 

one  offended. 
And  a  look  of  supplication  gazing  earnest  in  his 

face. 

Said  he,  "  Wake  me  by  no   gesture,  —  sound  of 

breath,  or  stir  of  vesture  ! 
Let   the  blessed  apparition   melt    not  yet   to   its 

divine  ! 
No    approaching  —  hush,    no    breathing  !    or   my 

heart  must  swoon  to  death  in 
The  too  utter  life  thou  bringest,  O  thou  dream  of 

Geraldine  !  " 

Ever,    evermore  the  while  in  a   slow  silence  she 

kept  smiling, 
But  the  tears  ran  over  lightly  from  her  eyes  and 

tenderly  :  — 
"  Dost    thou,    Bertram,    truly    love    me  ?     Is   no 

woman  far  above  me 
Found  more  worthy  of  thy  poet-heart,  than  such 

a  one  as  I?  " 


164  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Said  he  —  "I  would  dream  so  ever,  like  the  flow- 
ing of  that  river, 

Flowing  ever  in  a  shadow,  greenly  onward  to  the 
sea  ! 

So,  thou  vision  of  all  sweetness,  princely  to  a  full 
completeness 

Would  ray  heart  and  life  flow  onward,  deathward, 
through  this  dream  of  thee  !  " 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence  she 
kept  smiling, 

While  the  silver  tears  ran  faster  down  the  blush- 
ing of  her  cheeks  ; 

Then  with  both  her  hands  enfolding  both  of  his, 
she  softly  told  him, 

"  Bertram,  if  1  say  I  love  thee,  .   .   .   'tis  the  vision  \ 
only  speaks." 

Softened,  quickened  to  adore  her,  on  his  knee  he 

fell  before  her. 
And  she  whispered  low  in  triumph  —  "•  It  shall  be 

as  I  have  sworn. 
Very  rich  he  is   in    virtues,  very  noble  —  noble, 

certes  ; 
And  I  shall  not  blush  in  knowing  that  men  call 

him  lowly  born." 


ATALAIVTA'S  liACE  165 


ATALANTA'S   RACE 


BY    WILLIAM    MORRIS 


ARGUMENT 


Atalanta,  daughter  of  King  Schoeneus,  not  willing  to 
lose  her  virgin's  estate,  made  it  a  law  to  all  suitors  that  they 
should  run  a  race  with  her  in  the  public  place,  and  if  they 
failed  to  overcome  her  should  die  unrevenged  ;  and  thus 
many  brave  www  pei-ished.  At  last  came  Milanion,  the 
son  of  Amphidamas,  who,  outrunning  her  with  the  help  of 
Venus,  gained  tlie  virgin  and  wedded  her. 

Througli  thick  Arcadian  woods ^  a  hunter  went, 
Following  the  beasts  np,  on  a  fresh  spring  day; 
But  since  his  horn-tipped  bow  but  seldom  bent, 
Now  at  the  noontide  naught  had  happed  to  slay. 
Within  a  vale  he  called  his  hounds  away, 
Hearkening  the  echoes  of  his  lone  voice  cling 
About  the  cliffs  and  through  the  beech  trees  ring. 

But  when  they  ended,  still  awhile  he  stood, 
And  but  the  sweet  familiar  tlirush  could  hear. 
And  all  the  day-long  noises  of  the  wood. 
And  o'er  the  dry  leaves  of  the  vanished  year 
His  hounds'  feet  pattering  as  they  drew  anear. 
And  heavy  breatliing  from  their  heads  low  hung, 
To  see  the  mighty  cornel  bow  unstrung. 


166  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Then  smiling  did  he  turn  to  leave  the  place, 
But  with  his  first  step  some  new  fleeting  thought 
A  shadow  cast  across  his  sun-burnt  face  ; 
I  think  the  golden  net  that  April  brought 
From  some  warm  world   his  wavering  soul  had 

caught ; 
For,  sunk  in  vague  sweet  longing,  did  he  go 
Betwixt  the  trees  with  doubtful  steps  and  slow. 

Yet  howsoever  slow  he  went,  at  last 
The  trees  grew  sparser,  and  the  wood  was  done  ; 
Whereon  one  farewell,  backward  look  he  cast. 
Then,  turning  round  to  see  what  place  was  won, 
With  shaded  e3^es  looked  underneath  the  sun. 
And   o'er   green  meads  and  new-turned   furrows 

brown 
Beheld  the  gleaming  of  King  Schoeneus'  town. 

So  thitherward  he  turned,  and  on  each  side 
The  folk  were  busy  on  the  teeming  land. 
And  man  and  maid  from  the  brown  furrows  cried, 
Or  midst  the  newly-blossomed  vines  did  stand. 
And  as  the  rustic  weapon  pressed  the  hand 
Thought  of  the  nodding  of  the  well-filled  ear. 
Or  how  the  knife  the  heavy  bunch  should  shear. 

Merry  it  was  :  about  him  sung  the  birds. 
The  spring  flowers    bloomed  along    the  firm  dry 

road, 
The    sleek-skinned    mothers   of    the  sharp-horned 

herds 


ATALANTA'S    RACE  167 

Now  for  the  barefoot  milking- maidens  lowed  ; 
While  from  the  freshness  of  his  blue  abode, 
Glad  his  death-bearing  arrows  to  forget, 
The  broad  sun  blazed,  nor  scattered  plagues 2, as 

yet. 

Through   such    fair   things   unto   the  gates  he 
came, 
And   found   them    open,    as    though   peace    were 

there  ; 
Wherethrough,  unquestioned  of  his  race  or  name, 
He  entered,  and  along  the  streets  'gan  fare. 
Which  at  the  first  of  folk  were  well-nigh  bare  ; 
But  pressing  on,  and  going  more  hastily. 
Men  hurrying  too  he  'gan  at  last  to  see. 

Following  the  last  of  these,  he  still  pressed  on, 
Until  an  open  space  he  came  unto, 
Where  wreaths  of  fame  had  oft  been  lost  and  won, 
For  feats  of  strengfth  folk  there  were  wont  to  do. 
And  now  our  hunter  looked  for  something  new. 
Because  the  whole  wide  space  was  bare,  and  stilled 
The  high  seats  were,  with  eager  people  filled. 

There  with  the  others  to  a  seat  he  gat. 
Whence  he  beheld  a  broidered  canopy, 
'Neath  which  in  fair  array  King  Scho^neus  sat 
Upon  his  throne  with  councilors  thereby ; 
And  underneath  his  well-wrought  seat  and  high, 
He  saw  a  golden  image  of  the  sun, 
A  silver  imaaje  of  the  Fleet-foot  One.^ 


168  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

A  brazen  altar  stood  beneath  their  feet 
Whereon  a  thin  flame  flickered  in  the  wind 
Nigh  this  a  herald  clad  in  raiment  meet 
Made  ready  even  now  his  horn  to  wind, 
By  whom  a  huge  man  held  a  sword,  entwined 
With  yellow  flowers  ;  these  stood  a  little  space 
From  off  the  altar,  nigh  the  starting  place. 

And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide 
Foot  set  to  foot, — a  young  man  slim  and  fair, 
Crisp-haired,  well  knit,  with  firm  limbs  often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may  spare  ; 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  crarland  bore. 


&" 


But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  he  contend  ? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 
When  in  the  woods  she  lists  her  bow  to  bend, 
Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad. 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
If  he  must  still  behold  lier  from  afar  ; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  world  live  free  from  war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ; 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear, 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were  set 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul  were  near, 
But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turned 
His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that  burned. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE  169 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the  trumpet's 
clang 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there  sprang, 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side  ; 
But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last, 
And  round  about  it  still  abreast  they  passed. 

But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they  ran, 
When  halfway  to  the  starting-point  they  were, 
A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew  near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground  could  feel. 
And  bliss  unhoped  for  o'er  his  heart  'gan  steal. 

But  midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he  heard 
Her  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the  sound 
Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His  flushed  and  eager  face  he  turned  around. 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  but  scarcely  saw  her  there 
Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood  she  breathing  like  a  little  child 
Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep, 
For  no  victorious  joy  her  red  lips  smiled, 
Her  cheek  its  wonted  freshness  did  but  keep ; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and  deep. 


170  nAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Though  some  divine  thought  softened  all  her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the  place. 

But  her  late  foe  stopped  short  amidst  his  course, 
One  moment  gazed  upon  her  piteously, 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did  force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could  see ; 
And,  changed  like  one  who  knows  his  time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly  blade. 
Bared  of  its  flowers,  and  through  the  crowded  place 
Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it  the  maid 
Went  by  the  poor  wretch  at  a  gentle  pace. 
And  he  to  hers  upturned  his  sad  white  face ; 
Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  nio-ht. 


"&' 


So  was  the  pageant  ended,  and  all  folk 
Talking  of  this  and  that  familiar  thing 
In  little  groups  from  that  sad  concourse  broke. 
For  now  tlie  shrill  bats  were  upon  the  wing, 
And  soon  dark  night  would  slay  the  evening, 
And  in  dark  gardens  sang  the  nightingale 
Her  little-heeded,  oft-repeated  tale. 

And  with  the  last  of  all  the  hunter  Avent, 
Who,  wondering  at  the  strange  sight  he  had  seen 
Prayed  an  old  man  to  tell  him  what  it  meant, 
Both  why  the  vanquished  man  so  slain  had  been, 


ATALANTA'S   RACE  171 

And  if  the  maiden  were  an  earthly  queen, 
Or  rather  what  much  more  she  seemed  to  be, 
No  sharer  in  the  world's  mortality. 

"  Stranger,"  said  he,  "  I  pray  she  soon  may  die 
Whose  lovely  youth  has  slain  so  many  an  one ! 
King  Schoeneus'  daughter  is  she  verily. 
Who  when  her  eyes  first  looked  upon  the  sun 
Was  fain  to  end  her  life  but  new  begun. 
For  he  had  vowed  to  leave  but  men  alone 
Sprung  from  his  loins  when  he  from  earth  was  gone. 

"  Therefore  he  bade  one  leave  her  in  the  wood. 
And  let  wild  things  deal  with  her  as  they  might. 
But  this  being  done,  some  cruel  god  thought  good 
To  save  her  beauty  in  the  world's  despite  : 
Folk  say  that  her,  so  delicate  and  white 
As  now  she  is,  a  rough  root-grubbing  bear 
Amidst  her  shapeless  cubs  at  first  did  rear. 

"  In  course  of  time  the  woodfolk  slew  her  nurse, 
And  to  their  rude  abode  the  youngling  brought, 
And  reared  her  up  to  be  a  kingdom's  curse. 
Who  grown  a  woman,  of  no  kingdom  thought. 
But   armed   and   swift,    'mid    beasts    destruction 

wrought. 
Nor  spared  two  shaggy  centaur  kings  to  slay 
To  whom  her  body  seemed  an  easy  prey. 

"  So  to  this  city,  led  by  fate,  she  came 
Whom  known  by  signs,  whereof  I  cannot  tell. 


172  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

King-  SclKBiieus  for  his  child  at  last  did  claim, 
Nor  otherwhere  since  that  day  doth  she  dwell 
Sending  too  many  a  noble  soul  to  hell  — 
What  !    thine  eyes  glisten  !    what  then,  thinkest 

thou 
Her  shining  head  unto  the  yoke  to  bow  ? 

"  Listen,  my  son,  and  love  some  other  maid 
For  she  the  saffron  gown  *  will  never  wear. 
And  on  no  flower-strewn  couch  shall  she  be  laid, 
Nor  shall  her  voice  make  glad  a  lover's  ear : 
Yet  if  of  Death  thou  hast  not  any  fear. 
Yea,  rather,  if  thou  lovest  him  utterly, 
Thou  still  may'st  woo  her  ere  thou  com'st  to  die, 

"  Like  him  that  on  this  day  thou  sawest  lie  dead ; 
For,  fearing  as  I  deem  the  sea-born  one. 
The  maid  has  vowed  e'en  such  a  man  to  wed 
As  in  the  course  her  swift  feet  can  outrun, 
lUit  whoso  fails  herein,  his  days  are  done : 
He  came  the  iiighest  that  was  slain  to-day, 
Although  with  him  I  deem  she  did  but  play. 

"  Behold,  such  mercy  Atalanta  gives 
To  those  that  long  to  win  her  loveliness ; 
Be  wise  !   be  sure  that  many  a  maid  there  lives 
Gentler  than  she,  of  beauty  little  less, 
Whose  swimming  eyes  thy  loving  words  shall  bless, 
When  in  some  garden,  knee  set  close  to  knee, 
Thou  sing'st  the  song  that  love  may  teach  to  thee/' 


atalanta's  race  173 

So  to  the  hunter  spake  that  ancient  man, 
And  left  him  for  his  own  home  presently : 
But  he  turned  round,  and  through  the  moonlight 

wan 
Reached  the  thick  wood,  and  there  'twixt  tree  and 

tree 
Distraught  he  passed  the  long  night  feverishly, 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  and  at  dawn  arose 
To  wage  hot  war  against  his  speechless  foes. 

There  to  the  hart's  flank  seemed  his  shaft  to  grow, 
As  panting  down  the  broad  green  glades  he  flew, 
There  by  his  horn  the  Dryads  well  might  know 
His  thrust  against  the  bear's  heart  had  been  true. 
And  there  Adonis'  bane  his  javelin  slew. 
But  still  in  vain  through  rough  and   smooth  he 

went. 
For  none  the  more  his  restlessness  was  spent. 

So  wandering,  he  to  Argive  cities^  came. 
And  in  the  lists  with  valiant  men  he  stood. 
And  by  great  deeds  he  won  him  praise  and  fame, 
And  heaps  of  wealth  for  little-valued  blood ; 
But  none  of  all  these  things,  or  life,  seemed  good 
Unto  his  heart,  where  still  unsatisfied 
A  ravenous  longing  warred  with  fear  and  pride. 

Therefore  it  happed  when  but  a  month  had  gone 
Since  he  had  left  King  Schoeneus'  city  old, 
In  hunting-gear  again,  again  alone 
The  forest-bordered  meads  did  he  behold. 


174  HAWTHORNE   CLASSICS 

Where  still  'mid  thoughts  of  August's  quivering 

gold 
Folk  hoed  the  wheat,  and  clipped  the  vine  in  trust 
Of  faint  October's  purple-foaming  must. 

And  once  again  he  passed  the  peaceful  gate, 
While  to  his  beating  heart  his  lips  did  lie, 
That  owning  not  victorious  love  and  fate. 
Said,  half  aloud,  "  And  here  too  must  I  try, 
To  win  of  alien  men  the  mastery, 
And  gather  for  my  head  fresh  meed  of  fame 
And  cast  new  glory  on  my  father's  name." 

In  spite  of  that,  how  beat  his  heart,  when  first 
Folk  said  to  him,  "  And  art  thou  come  to  see 
That  which  still  makes  our  city's  name  accurst 
Among  all  mothers  for  its  cruelty? 
Then  know  indeed  that  fate  is  good  to  thee 
Because  to-morrow  a  new  luckless  one 
Against  the  whitefoot  maid  is  pledged  to  run." 

So  on  the  morrow  with  no  curious  eyes 
As  once  he  did,  that  piteous  sight  he  saw. 
Nor  did  that  wonder  in  his  heart  arise 
As  toward  the  goal  the  conquering  maid  'gan  draw, 
Nor  did  he  gaze  upon  her  eyes  with  awe. 
Too  full  the  pain  of  longing  filled  his  heart 
For  fear  or  wonder  there  to  have  a  part. 

But  O,  how  long  the  night  was  ere  it  went  ! 
How  long  it  was  before  the  dawn  begun 


ATALANTA'S  RACE  175 

Showed  to  the  wakening  birds  tlie  sun's  intent 
That  not  in  darkness  should  the  world  be  done  ! 
And  then,  and  then,  how  long  before  the  sun 
Bade  silently  the  toilers  of  the  eartli 
Get  forth  to  fruitless  cares  or  empty  mirth ! 

And  long  it  seemed  that  in  the  market-place 
He  stood  and  saw  the  chaffering  folk  go  by. 
Ere  from  the  ivory  throne  King  Schoeneus'  face 
Looked  down  upon  the  murmur  royally. 
But  then  came  trembling  that  tlie  time  was  nigh 
When  he  midst  pitying  looks  his  love  must  claim. 
And  jeering  voices  must  salute  his  name. 

But  as  the  tlirong  he  pierced  to  gain  the  throne, 
His  alien  face  distraught  aijd  anxious  told 
What  hopeless  errand  he  was  bound  upon. 
And,  each  to  each,  folk  whispered  to  behold 
His  godlike  limbs  ;   nay,  and  one  woman  old 
As  he  went  by  must  pluck  him  by  the  sleeve 
And  pray  him  yet  that  wretched  love  to  leave. 

For  sidling  up  she  said,  "  Canst  thou  live  twice. 
Fair  son?  canst  thou  have  joyful  youth  again, 
That  thus  thou  goest  to  the  sacrifice 
Thyself  the  victim  ?  nay  then,  all  in  vain 
Thy  mother  bore  her  longing  and  her  pain, 
And  one  more  maiden  on  the  earth  must  dwell 
Hopeless  of  joy,  nor  fearing  death  and  hell. 

"  O,  fool,  thou  knowest  not  the  compact  then 
That  with  the  threeformed  goddess  ^  slie  has  made 


176  HAWTHORNE   CLASSICS 

To  keep  her  from  the  loving  lips  of  men, 

And  in  no  saffron  gown  to  be  arrayed, 

And  therewithal  with  glory  to  be  paid, 

And  love  of  her  the  moonlit  river  sees 

White  'gainst  the  shadow  of  the  formless  trees. 

"  Come  back,  and  I  myself  will  pray  for  thee 
Unto  the  sea-born  framer  of  delights, 
To  give  thee  her  who  on  the  earth  may  be 
The  fairest  stirrer  up  to  death  and  fights. 
To  quench  with  hopeful  days  and  joyous  nights 
The  flame  that  doth  thy  youthful  heart  consume 
Come  back,  nor  give  thy  beauty  to  the  tomb." 

How  should  he  listen  to  her  earnest  speech? 
Words,  such  as  he  not  once  or  twice  had  said 
Unto  himself,  whose  meaning  scarce  could  reach 
The  firm  abode  of  that  sad  hardihead  — 
He  turned  about,  and  througli  the  marketstead 
Swiftly  he  passed,  until  before  the  throne 
In  the  cleared  sj)ace  he  stood  at  last  alone. 

Then  said  the  King,  "  Stranger,  what  dost  thou 
here  ? 
Have  any  of  my  folk  done  ill  to  thee  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  forest  men  in  fear  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  sad  fraternity 
Who  still  will  strive  my  daughter's  mates  to  be, 
Staking  their  lives  to  win  to  earthly  bliss 
The  lonely  maid  the  friend  of  Artemis  ?  " 


ATALANTA\S  RACE  177 

"  O  King,"  he  said,   "  thou  sayest  the  word  in- 
deed ; 
Nor  will  I  quit  the  strife  till  I  have  won 
My  sweet  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  need. 
And  know  that  I  am  called  Milanion, 
Of  King  Amphidamas  tlie  well-loved  son  : 
So  fear  not  that  to  thy  old  name,  O  King, 
Much  loss  or  shame  my  victory  will  bring." 

"Nay,  Prince,"  said  Schceneus,  "welcome  to  this 
land 
Thou  wert  indeed,  if  thou  wert  here  to  try 
Thy  strength  'gainst  some  one  mighty  of  his  hand. 
Nor  would  we  grudge  thee  well-won  mastery. 
But  now,  why  wilt  thou  come  to  me  to  die, 
And  at  my  door  lay  down  the  luckless  head. 
Swelling  the  band  of  the  unhappy  dead, 

"  Whose  curses  even  now  my  heart  doth  fear  ? 
Lo,  I  am  old,  and  know  what  life  can  be. 
And  what  a  bitter  thing  is  death  anear. 
O  Son  !  be  wise,  and  hearken  unto  me, 
And  if  no  other  can  be  dear  to  thee. 
At  least  as  now,  yet  is  the  world  full  wide, 
And  bliss  in  seeming  hopeless  hearts  may  hide  : 

"But  if  thou  losest  life,  then  all  is  lost." 
"Nay,  King,"  Milanion  said,  "thy  words  are  vain. 
Doubt  not  that  I  have  counted  well  the  cost. 
But  say,  on  what  day  wilt  thou  that  I  gain 


178  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Fulfilled  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  pain  ? 
Right  glad  were  I  if  it  could  be  to-day, 
And  all  my  doubts  at  rest  forever  lay." 

"  Nay,"  said  King  Schceneus,  "  thus  it  shall  not 
be, 
But  rather  shalt  thou  let  a  month  go  by, 
And  weary  with  thy  prayers  for  victory 
What  god  thou  know'st  the  kindest  and  most  nigh. 
So  doing,  still  perchance  thou  shalt  not  die  : 
And  with   my   goodwill  wouldst   thou   have    the 

maid 
For  of  the  equal  gods  I  grow  afraid. 

"  And  until  then,  O  Prince,  be  thou  my  guest. 
And  all  these  troublous  things  awhile  forget." 
"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  couldst  thou  give  my  soul  good 

rest. 
And  on  mine  head  a  sleepy  garland  set. 
Then  had  I  'scaped  the  meshes  of  the  net. 
Nor  shouldst  thou  hear  from  me  another  word  ; 
But  now,  make  sharp  thy  fearful  heading  sword. 

"  Yet  will  I  do  what  son  of  man  may  do. 
And  promise  all  the  gods  may  most  desire. 
That  to  myself  I  may  at  least  be  true  ; 
And  on  that  day  my  heart  and  limbs  so  tire, 
With  utmost  strain  and  measureless  desire, 
That,  at  the  worst,  I  may  but  fall  asleep 
When    in    the    sunlight   round    that  sword    shall 
sweep." 


ATALANTA'S  IlACE  179 

He  went  with  that,  nor  anywhere  would  bide, 
But  unto  Argos  restlessly  did  wend ; 
And  there,  as  one  who  lays  all  hope  aside, 
Because  the  leech  has  said  his  life  must  end, 
Silent  farewell  he  bade  to  foe  and  friend. 
And  took  his  way  unto  the  restless  sea, 
For  there  he  deemed  his  rest  and  help  might  be. 

Upon  the  shore  of  Argolis  there  stands 
A  temple  to  the  goddess  that  he  sought. 
That,  turned  unto  the  lion-bearing  lands, 
Fenced    from    the    east,    of   cold   winds   hath   no 

thought. 
Though  to  no  homestead   there   the    sheaves  are 

brought. 
No  groaning  press  torments  the  close-clipped  murk. 
Lonely  the  fane  stands,  far  from  all  men's  work. 

Pass  through  a  close,  set  thick  with  myrtle-trees, 
Through  the  brass  doors  that  guard  the  holy  place, 
And  entering,  hear  the  washing  of  the  seas 
That  twice  a  day  rise  high  above  the  base. 
And  with  the  southwest  urging  them,  embrace 
The  marble  feet  of  her  that  standeth  there 
That  shrink  not,  naked  though  they  be  and  fair. 

Small  is  the   fane  through  which  the  seawind 
sings 
About  Queen  Venus'  well- wrought  image  white, 
But  hung  around  are  many  precious  things, 
The  gifts  of  those  who,  longing  for  delight, 


180  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Have  hung  tliem  there  within  the  goddess'  sight, 
And  in  return  have  taken  at  her  hands 
The  living  treasures  of  the  Grecian  lands. 

And  thither  now  has  come  Milanion, 
And  showed  unto  the  priests'  wide-open  eyes 
Gifts  fairer  than  all  those  that  there  have  shone, 
Silk  cloths,  inwrought  with  Indian  fantasies, 
And  bowls  inscribed  with  sayings  of  the  wise 
Above  the  deeds  of  foolish  living  things, 
And  mirrors  fit  to  be  the  gifts  of  kings. 

And  now  before  the  Sea-born  One  "<  he  stands. 
By  the  sweet  veiling  smoke  made  dim  and  soft. 
And  while  the  incense  trickles  from  his  hands. 
And  wliile  the  odorous  smoke-wreaths  hang  aloft. 
Thus  doth  he  pray  to  her  :  "  O  Thou,  who  oft 
Hast  holpen  man  and  maid  in  their  distress, 
Despise  me  not  for  this  my  wretchedness  ! 

"  O  goddess,  among  us  who  dwell  below. 
Kings  and  great  men,  great  for  a  little  while. 
Have  pity  on  the  lowly  heads  that  bow, 
Nor  hate  the  hearts  that  love  them  without  guile ; 
Wilt  thou  be  worse  than  these,  and  is  thy  smile 
A  vain  device  of  him  who  set  thee  here, 
An  empty  dream  of  some  artificer  ? 

"  O,  great  one,  some  men  love,  and  are  ashamed  ; 
Some  men  are  weary  of  the  bonds  of  love  ; 
Yea,  and  by  some  men  lightly  art  thou  blamed, 


ATALANTA'S  RACE  181 

That  from  tliy  toils  their  lives  they  cannot  move, 
And  'mid  the  ranks  of  men  tlieir  manhood  prove. 
Alas  !   O  goddess,  if  thou  slay  est  me 
What  new  immortal  can  I  serve  but  thee  ? 

"  Think  then,  will  it  bring  honor  to  thy  head 
If  folk  say,  '  Everything  aside  he  cast 
And  to  all  fame  and  honor  was  he  dead, 
And  to  his  one  hope  now  is  dead  at  last. 
Since  all  unholpen  he  is  gone  and  past  : 
Ah,  the  gods  love  not  man,  for  certainly. 
He  to  his  helper  did  not  cease  to  cry.' 

"  Nay,  but  thou  wilt  help  ;  they  who  died  before 
Not  single-hearted  as  I  deem  came  here. 
Therefore  unthanked  they  laid  their  gifts  before 
Thy  stainless  feet,  still  shivering  with  their  fear. 
Lest  in  their  eyes  their  true  thought  might  appear. 
Who  sought  to  be  the  lords  of  that  fair  town. 
Dreaded  of  men  and  winners  of  renown. 

"  O  Queen,  thou  knowest  I  pray  not  for  this  : 
O  set  us  down  together  in  some  place 
Where  not  a  voice  can  break  our  heaven  of  bliss. 
Where  naught  but  rocks  and  I  can  see  her  face, 
Softening  beneath  the  marvel  of  thy  grace. 
Where  not  a  foot  our  vanished  steps  can  track  — 
The  golden  age,  the  golden  age  come  back  ! 

"  O  fairest,  hear  me  now  who  do  thy  will, 
Plead  for  thy  rebel  that  she  be  not  slain, 


182  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

But  live  and  love  and  be  thy  servant  still  ; 
Ah,  give  her  joy  and  take  away  my  pain, 
And  thus  two  long-enduring  servants  gain. 
An  easy  thing  this  is  to  do  for  me, 
What  need  of  my  vain  words  to  weary  thee  ! 

"  But  none  the  less,  this  place  will  I  not  leave 
Until  I  needs  must  go  my  death  to  meet. 
Or  at  thy  hands  some  happy  sign  receive 
That  in  great  joy  we  twain  may  one  day  greet 
Thy  presence  here  and  kiss  thy  silver  feet. 
Such  as  we  deem  thee,  fair  beyond  all  words, 
Victorious  o'er  our  servants  and  our  lords." 

Then  from  the  altar  back  a  pace  he  drew. 
But  from  the  Queen  turned  not  his  face  away, 
But  'gainst  a  pillar  leaned,  until  the  blue 
That  arched  the  sky,  at  ending  of  the  day. 
Was  turned  to  ruddy  gold  and  changing  gray, 
And  clear,  but  low,  the  nigh-ebbed  windless  sea 
In  the  still  evening  murmured  ceaselessly. 

And  there  he  stood  when  all  the  sun  was  down, 
Nor  had  he  moved,  when  the  dim  golden  light, 
Like  the  far  luster  of  a  godlike  town. 
Had  left  the  world  to  seeming  hopeless  night, 
Nor  would  he  move  the  more  when  wan  moonlight 
Streamed  through  the  pillars  for  a  little  while. 
And   lighted    up   the    white    Queen's    changeless 
smile. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE  183 

Naught  noted  lie  the  shallow  flowing  sea 
As  step  by  step  it  set  the  wrack  a-swim, 
The  yellow  torchlight  nothing  noted  he 
Wherein    with    fluttering    gown    and    half-bared 

limb 
The  temple  damsels  sung  their  midnight  hymn, 
And  naught  the  doubled  stillness  of  the  fane 
When  they  were  gone  and  all  was  hushed  again. 

But  when  the  waves   had    touched  the  marble 
base, 
And  steps  the  fish  swim  over  twice  a  day, 
The  dawn  beheld  him  sunken  in  his  place 
Upon  the  floor  ;  and  sleeping  there  he  lay. 
Not  heeding  aught  the  little  jets  of  spray 
The  roughened  sea  brought  nigh,  across  him  cast. 
For  as  one  dead  all  thougbt  from  him  had  passed. 

Yet  long  before  the  sun  had  showed  his  head, 
Long  ere  the  varied  hangings  on  the  wall 
Had  gained  once  more  their  blue  and  green  and 

red. 
He  rose  as  one  some  well-known  sign  doth  call 
When  war  upon  the  city's  gates  doth  fall, 
And  scarce  like  one  fresh  risen  out  of  sleep, 
He  'gan  again  his  broken  watch  to  keep. 

Then  he  turned  round  ;   not  for  the  sea-gull's 
cry 
That  wheeled  above  the  temple  in  his  flight. 
Not  for  the  fresh  south  wind  that  lovingly 


184  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Breathed  on  tlie  new-born  day  and  dying  night, 

But  some  strange  hope  'twixt  fear  and  great  de- 
light 

Drew  round  his  face,  now  flushed,  now  pale  and 
wan, 

And  still  constrained  his  eyes  the  sea  to  scan. 

Now  a  faint  light  lit  up  the  southern  sky, 
Not  sun  or  moon,  for  all  the  world  was  gray. 
But  this  a  briglit  cloud  seemed,  that  drew  anigh. 
Lighting  the  dull  waves  that  beneath  it  lay 
As  toward  the  temple  still  it  took  its  way. 
And  still  grew  greater,  till  ]\Iilanion 
Saw  naught    for   dazzling    light   that   round    him 
shone. 

But  as  he  staggered  with  his  arms  outspread, 
Delicious  unnamed  odors  breathed  around. 
For  languid  happiness  he  bowed  his  head. 
And  with  wet  eyes  sank  down  upon  the  ground, 
Nor  wished  for  aught,  nor  any  dream  he  found 
To  give  him  reason  for  that  happiness. 
Or  make  him  ask  more  knowledge  of  his  bliss. 

At  last  his  eyes  were  cleared,  and  he  could  see 
Through  happy  tears  the  goddess  face  to  face 
With  that  faint  image  of  Divinity, 
Whose  well-wrought  smile  and  dainty  changeless 


grace 


Until  that  morn  so  gladdened  all  the  place  ; 


ATALANTA\S  RACE  185 

Then  he,  unwitting  cried  aloud  her  name 
And  covered  up  liis  eyes  for  fear  and  sliame. 

But    through  the  stilhiess  he    her  voice   could 
hear 
Piercing  his  heart  with  joy  scarce  bearable, 
That  said,  "  Milanion,  wherefore  dost  thou  fear, 
I  am  not  hard  to  those  who  love  me  well ; 
List  to  what  I  a  second  time  will  tell. 
And  thou  mayest  hear  perchance,  and  live  to  save 
The  cruel  maiden  from  a  loveless  grave. 

"  See,  by  my  feet  three  golden  apples  lie  — 
Such  fruit  among  the  heavy  roses  falls. 
Such  fruit  my  watchful  damsels  carefully 
Store  up  within  the  best  loved  of  my  walls, 
Ancient  Damascus,  where  the  lover  calls 
Above  my  unseen  head,  and  faint  and  light 
The  rose-leaves  flutter  round  me  in  the  night. 

"And  note,  that  these  are  not  alone  most  fair 
With  heavenly  gold,  but  longings   strange    they 

bring 
Unto  the  hearts  of  men,  who  will  not  care 
Beholding  these,  for  any  once-loved  thing 
Till  round  the  shining  sides  their  fingers  cling. 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  well-girt  swiftfoot  maid 
By  sight  of  these  amid  her  glory  stayed. 

"  For  bearing  these  within  a  scrip  with  thee, 
When  first  she  heads  thee  from  the  starting-place 


186  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Cast  down  the  first  one  for  her  eyes  to  see, 
And  when  she  turns  aside  make  on  apace, 
And  if  again  she  heads  thee  in  the  race 
Spare  not  the  other  two  to  cast  aside 
If  she  not  long  enough  behind  will  bide. 

"  Farewell,  and  when  has  come  the  happy  time 
That  she  Diana's  raiment  must  unbind 
And   all  the   world  seems  blessed  with   Saturn's 

clime  ^ 
And  thou  with  eager  arms  about  her  twined 
Beholdest  first  her  gray  eyes  growing  kind. 
Surely,  O  trembler,  thou  shalt  scarcely  then 
Forget  the  Helper  of  unhappy  men." 

Milanion  raised  his  liead  at  this  last  word 
For  now  so  soft  and  kind  she  seemed  to  be 
No  longer  of  her  Godhead  was  he  feared ; 
Too  late  he  looked,  for  nothing  could  he  see 
But  the  white  image  glimmering  doubtfully 
In  the  departing  twilight  cold  and  gray. 
And  those  three  apples  on  the  steps  that  lay. 

These  then   he  caught  up  quivering  with  de- 
light, 
Yet  fearful  lest  it  all  might  be  a  dream, 
And  though  aweary  with  the  watcliful  night, 
And  sleepless  nights  of  longing,  still  did  deem 
He  could  not  sleep ;  but  yet  the  first  sunbeam 
That  smote  the  fane  across  the  heaving  deep 
Shone  on  him  laid  in  calm  untroubled  sleep. 


ATALANTA\S  RACE  187 

But  little  ere  the  noontide  did  he  rise, 
And  why  he  felt  so  happy  scarce  could  tell 
Until  the  gleaming  apples  met  his  eyes. 
Then  leaving  the  fair  place  where  this  befell 
Oft  he  looked  back  as  one  who  loved  it  well, 
Then  homeward  to  the  haunts  of  men  'gan  wend 
To  bring  all  things  unto  a  ha^^py  end. 

Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by. 
Again  are  all  folk  round  the  running  place. 
Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the  race, 
For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 
Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  looked  upon. 

But   yet — what  change  is   this  tliat  holds  the 
maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing  blade, 
Some  happ}^  hope  of  help  and  victory  ? 
The  others  seemed  to  say,  "  We  come  to  die. 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while, 
That  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy  smile." 

But  he  —  what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
He  cast  on  her  ?  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ? 
Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happiness  ? 
So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but  dead. 
E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head ; 
So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 
Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his  mind. 


188  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his  gaze, 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise, 
And  wish  that  she  were  clad  in  other  guise? 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were  heard. 
Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maiden's  word? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  without  a 
name, 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before. 
This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of  fame. 
This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er. 
These  doubts  that  grow   each  minute   more  and 

more  ? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows  near. 
And  weak  defeat  and  woeful  victory  fear  ? 

But  while  she  seemed  to  hear  her  beating  heart, 
Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang  out 
And  forth  they  sprang ;    and  she  must  play  her 

part. 
Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a  doubt. 
Though  slackening  once,  she  turned  her  head  about, 
But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed  him  dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand. 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light  there  flew 
And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the  sand  ; 


ATALANTA'S  RACE  189 

Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there  grew 
To  have  the  toy  ;  some  god  she  thought  had  given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  eartli  a  heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she  ran, 
And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again,  the  great-limbed  man, 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold. 
And  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold. 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  j^ursuit. 
Though  with  one  hand  she  touched   the  golden 
fruit. 


Note  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to  bear 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize. 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  well-nigh  won. 

But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it 
White  fingers  underneath  his  own  were  laid, 
And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did  flit, 
Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
Ikit  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Wavered  and  stoj^ped,  and  turned  and  made  no  stay. 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 


190  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast  around 
Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 
And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she  wound 
To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had  she 
To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty  space 
Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winning  place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet, 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple  cast. 
She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so  fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfill. 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win 
Once  more,  an  unblest  woeful  victory  — 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  why  does  her  breath  begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily  ? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is  ?  why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow  dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every  limb  ? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay  to  find 
Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findeth  this, 
A  strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  twined, 
Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss. 
So  wrapped  she  is  in  new  unbroken  bliss : 
Made  happy  that  tlie  foe  the  prize  hath  won, 
She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 


ATALANTA\S  RACE  191 

Shatter  the  trumpet,  hew  adown  the  posts ! 
Upon  the  brazen  altar  break  the  sword, 
And  scatter  incense  to  appease  the  ghosts 
Of  those  who  died  here  by  their  own  award. 
Bring  forth  the  image  of  the  mighty  Lord, 
And  her  who  unseen  o'er  the  runners  hung, 
And  did  a  deed  forever  to  be  sung. 

Here  are  the  gathered  folk,  make  no  delay. 
Open  King  Schoeneus'  well-filled  treasury. 
Bring  out  the  gifts  long  hid  from  light  of  day. 
The  golden  bowls  o'erwrought  with  imagery. 
Gold  chains,  and  unguents  brought  from  over  sea. 
The  saffron  gown  the  old  Phcenician  brought. 
Within  the  temple  of  the  Goddess  wrought. 

O  ye,  O  damsels,  who  shall  never  see 
Her,  that  Love's  servant  bringeth  now  to  you. 
Returning  from  another  victory, 
In  some  cool  bower  do  all  that  now  is  due ! 
Since  she  in  token  of  her  service  new 
Shall  give  to  Venus  offerings  rich  enow. 
Her  maiden  zone,  her  arrows,  and  her  bow. 


192  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 


THE   FLIGHT    OF   THE   DUCHESS 

BY   ROBERT    BROWNING 
I 

You're  my  friend  : 

I  was  the  man  the  Duke  spoke  to  ; 

I  helped  the  Duchess  to  cast  off  his  yoke,  too  ; 

So,  here's  the  tale  from  beginning  to  end, 

My  friend  ! 

II 

Ours  is  a  great  wild  country  :  ^ 

If  you  climb  to  our  castle's  top, 

I  don't  see  where  your  eye  can  stop  ; 

For  when  you've  passed  the  corn-field  country, 

Where  vineyards  leave  off,  flocks  are  packed, 

And  sheep-range  leads  to  cattle-tract, 

And  cattle-tract  to  open-chase. 

And  open-chase  to  the  very  base 

Of  the  mountain  where,  at  a  funeral  pace, 

Round  about,  solemn  and  slow. 

One  by  one,  row  after  row. 

Up  and  up  the  pine-trees  go, 

So,  like  black  priests  up,  and  so 

Down  the  other  side  again 

To  another  greater,  wilder  country, 

That's  one  vast  red  drear  burnt-up  plain. 

Branched  through  and  through  with  many  a  vein 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  193 

Whence  iron's  dug,  and  copper's  dealt ; 

Look  right,  look  left,  look  straight  before,  — 

Beneath  they  mine,  above  they  smelt. 

Copper-ore  and  iron -ore. 

And  forge  and  furnace  mold  and  melt, 

And  so  on,  more  and  ever  more, 

Till  at  the  last,  for  a  bounding  belt, 

Comes  the  salt  sand  hoar  of  the  great  sea-shore, 

—  And  the  whole  is  our  Duke's  country. 

Ill 

I  was  born  the  day  this  present  Duke  was  — 
(And  O,  says  the  song,  ere  I  was  old  !  ) 
In  the  castle  where  the  other  Duke  was  — 
(When  I  was  happy  and  young,  not  old  !) 
I  in  the  kennel,^  he  in  the  bower  : 
We  are  of  like  age  to  an  hour. 
My  father  was  huntsman  in  that  day  ; 
Who  has  not  heard  my  father  say 
That,  when  a  boar  was  brought  to  bay, 
Three  times,  four  times  out  of  five. 
With  his  huntspear  he'd  contrive 
To  get  the  killing-place  transfixed. 
And  pin  him  true,  both  eyes  betwixt  ? 
And  that's  why  the  old  Duke  would  rather 
He  lost  a  salt-pit  than  my  father. 
And  loved  to  have  him  ever  in  call  ; 
That's  why  my  father  stood  in  the  hall 
When  the  old  Duke  brought  his  infant  out 
To  show  the  people,  and  while  they  passed 


194  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

The  wondrous  bantling  round  about, 

Was  first  to  start  at  the  outside  blast 

As  the  Kaiser's  courier  blew  his  horn, 

Just  a  month  after  the  babe  was  born. 

"  And,"  quoth  the  Kaiser's  courier,  "  since 

The  Duke  has  got  an  heir,  our  Prince 

Needs  the  Duke's  self  at  his  side  :  " 

The  Duke  looked  down  and  seemed  to  wince, 

But  he  thought  of  wars  o'er  the  world  wide, 

Castles  a-fire,  men  on  their  inarch, 

The  toppling  tower,  the  crashing  arch ; 

And  up  he  looked,  and  awhile  he  eyed 

The  row  of  crests  and  shields  and  banners 

Of  all  achievements  after  all  manners. 

And  "  ay,"  said  the  Duke  witli  a  surly  pride. 

The  more  was  his  comfort  when  he  died 

At  next  year's  end,  in  a  velvet  suit. 

With  a  gilt  glove  on  his  hand,  his  foot 

In  a  silken  shoe  for  a  leather  boot, 

Petticoated  like  a  herald. 

In  a  chamber  next  to  an  ante-room. 

Where  he  breathed  the  breath  of  page  and  groom. 

What  he  called  stink,  and  they,  perfume  : 

—  They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 

Mad  with  pride,  like  fire  to  manage  ! 

They  should  have  got  his  cheek  fresh  tannage 

Such  a  day  as  to-day  in  the  merry  sunshine  ! 

Had  they  stuck  on  his  fist  a  rough-foot  merlin  ! 

(Hark,  the  wind's  on  the  heath  at  its  game  ! 

Oh,  for  a  noble  falcon-lanner 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  195 

To  flap  each  broad  wing  like  a  banner, 

And  tnrn  in  the  wind,  and  dance  like  flame  !) 

Had  they  broached  a  white-beer  cask  from  Berlin 

—  Or  if  you  incline  to  prescribe  mere  wine 
Put  to  his  lips,  when  they  saw  him  pine, 

A  cup  of  our  own  Moldavia  fine, 
Cotnar  for  instance,  green  as  May  sorrel 
And  ropy  with  sweet,  —  we  shall  not  quarrel.^ 

IV 

So,  at  home,  the  sick  tall  yellow  Duchess 

Was  left  with  the  infant  in  her  clutches. 

She  being  the  daughter  of  God  knows  who  :  ^ 

And  now  was  the  time  to  revisit  her  tribe. 

Abroad  and  afar  they  went,  the  two. 

And  let  our  people  rail  and  gibe 

At  the  empty  hall  and  extinguished  fire, 

As  loud  as  we  liked,  but  ever  in  vain, 

Till  after  long  years  we  had  our  desire, 

And  back  came  the  Duke  and  his  mother  again. 

V 

And  he  came  back  the  pertest  little  ape 
That  ever  affronted  human  shape  ; 
Full  of  his  travel,  struck  at  himself, 
You'd  say,  he  despised  our  bluff  old  ways  ? 

—  Not  he  I  ^     For  in  Paris  they  told  the  elf 
Our  rough  North  land  was  the  Land  of  Lays, 
The  one  good  thing  left  in  evil  days  ; 

Since  the  Mid-Age  was  the  Heroic  Time, 


196  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  only  in  wild  nooks  like  ours 

Could  you  taste  of  it  yet  as  in  its  prime, 

And  see  true  castles  with  proper  tow^ers, 

Young-hearted  women,  old-minded  men. 

And  manners  now  as  manners  were  then. 

So,  all   that   the    old    Dukes   had  been,    without 

knowing  it. 
This  Duke  would  fain  know  he  was,  without  being 

it; 
'Twas  not   for  the  joy's  self,  but  the  joy  of  his 

showing  it, 
Nor  for  the  pride's  self,  but  the  pride  of  our  see- 
ing it. 
He  revived  all  usages  thoroughly  worn-out, 
The  souls  of  them  fumed-forth,  the  hearts  of  them 

torn-out : 
And  chief  in  the  chase  his  neck  he  periled. 
On  a  lathy  horse,  all  legs  and  length. 
With  blood  for  bone,  all  speed,  no  strength  ; 

—  They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 
With  the  red  eye  slow  consuming  in  fire, 
And  the  thin  stiff  ear  like  an  abbey  spire  ! 

VI 

Well,  such  as  he  was,  he  must  marry,  we  heard  : 
And  out  of  a  convent,^  at  the  word. 
Came  the  lady,  in  time  of  spring. 

—  Oh,  old  thoughts  they  cling,  they  cling  ! 
That  da}^  I  know,  with  a  dozen  oaths 

I  clad  myself  in  thick  hunting-clothes 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  197 

Fit  for  the  chase  of  urochs  or  buffle 

In  winter-time  when  you  need  to  muffle. 

But  the  Duke  had  a  mind  we  should  cut  a  figure, 

And  so  we  saw  the  hidy  arrive  : 

My  friend,  I  have  seen  a  white  crane  bigger  ! 

She  was  tlie  smallest  lady  alive. 

Made  in  a  piece  of  nature's  madness. 

Too  small,  almost,  for  the  life  and  gladness 

That  over-filled  her,  as  some  hive 

Out  of  the  bears'  reach  on  the  high  trees 

Is  crowded  with  its  safe  merry  bees  : 

In  truth,  slie  was  not  hard  to  please  ! 

Up    she  looked,  down    she  looked,  round  at    the 

mead. 
Straight  at  the  castle,  that's  best  indeed 
To  look  at  from  outside  the  walls  : 
As  for  us,  styled  the  "  serfs  and  thralls," 
She  as  much  thanked  me  as  if  she  had  said  it, 
(With  her  eyes,  do  you  understand  ?  ) 
Because  I  patted  her  horse  while  I  led  it  ;  "^ 
And  Max,  who  rode  on  her  other  hand, 
Said,  no  bird  flew  past  but  she  inquired 
What  its  true  name  was,  nor  ever  seemed  tired  — • 
If  that  was  an  eagle  she  saw  hover. 
And  the  green  and  gray  bird  on  the  field  was  the 

plover. 
When  suddenly  appeared  the  Duke  : 
And  as  down  she  sprung,  the  small  foot  pointed 
On  to  my  hand,  — as  with  a  rebuke, 
And  as  if  his  backbone  were  not  jointed, 


198  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

The  Uuke  stepped  rather  aside  than  forward 
And  welcomed  her  with  his  grandest  smile  ; 
And,  mind  you,  his  mother  all  the  while 
Chilled  in  the  rear,  like  a  wind  to  Nor'ward  ; 
And  up,  like  a  weary  yawn,  with  its  pullies 
Went,  in  a  shriek,  the  rusty  portcullis  ; 
And,  like  a  glad  sky  the  north-wind  sullies, 
The  lady's  face  stopped  its  play. 
As  if  her  first  hair  had  grown  gray  ;  ^ 
For  such  things  must  begin  some  one  day. 

VII 

In  a  day  or  two  she  was  well  again  : 

As  who  should  say,  "  You  labor  in  vain  ! 

This  is  all  a  jest  against  God,  who  meant 

I  should  ever  be,  as  I  am,  content 

And  gJad  in  his  sight  ;   therefore,  glad  will  I  be. 

So,  smiling  as  at  first  went  she. 

vni 

She  was  active,  stirring,  all  fire  — 

Could  not  rest,  could  not  tire  — 

To  a  stone  she  might  have  given  life  ! 

(I  myself  loved  once,  in  my  day) 

—  For  a  shepherd's,  miner's,  huntsman's  wife, 

(I  had  a  wife,  I  know  what  I  say) 

Never  in  all  the  world  such  an  one  I  ^ 

And  here  was  j)lenty  to  be  done, 

And  she  that  could  do  it,  great  or  small, 

She  was  to  do  nothing  at  all. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DLWHESS  199 

There  was  already  this  man  at  his  post, 

This  in  his  station,  and  that  in  his  office, 

And  the  Duke's  phm  admitted  a  wife,  ^^  at  most, 

To  meet  his  eye  with  the  other  trophies. 

Now  outside  the  hall,  now  in  it, 

To  sit  thus,  stand  thus,  see  and  be  seen. 

At  the  proper  place  in  the  proper  minute, 

And  die  away  the  life  between. 

And  it  was  amusing  enough,  each  infraction 

Of  rule  —  (but  for  after-sadness  that  came) 

To  hear  the  consummate  self-satisfaction 

With  which  the  young  Duke  and  the  old  dame 

Would  let  her  advise,  and  criticise, 

And,  being  a  fool,  instruct  the  wise, 

And,  childlike,  parcel  out  praise  or  blame. 

They  bore  it  all  in  complacent  guise. 

As  though  an  artificer,  after  contriving 

A  wheel-work  image  as  if  it  were  living. 

Should  find  with  delight  it  could  motion  to  strike 

him  ! 
So  found  the  Duke,  and  his  mother  like  him  : 
The  lady  hardly  got  a  rebuff  — 
That  had  not  been  contemptuous  enough. 
With  his  cursed  smirk,  as  he  nodded  applause. 
And  kept  off  the  old  mother-cat's  claws. 

IX 

So,  the  little  lady  grew  silent  and  thin. 

Paling  and  ever  paling. 
As  the  way  is  with  a  hid  chagrin  ;  ^^ 


200  nAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  the  Duke  perceived  that  she  was  ailing, 
And  said  in  his  heart,  "  'Tis  done  to  spite  me. 
But  I  shall  find  in  my  power  to  right  me  I  " 
Don't  swear,  friend  !     The  old  one,  many  a  year. 
Is  in  hell,  and  the  Duke's  self  .   .   .  you  shall  hear. 

X 

Well,  early  in  autumn,  at  first  winter-warning, 
When  the  stag  had  to  break  with  his  foot,  of  a 

morning 
A  drinking-hole  out  of  the  fresh  tender  ice, 
That  covered  the  pond  till  the  sun,  in  a  trice. 
Loosening  it,  let  out  a  ripple  of  gold, 
And  another  and  another,  and  faster  and  faster. 
Till,    dimpling    to     blindness,     the    wide    water 

rolled,  — 
Then  it  so  chanced  that  the  Duke  our  master 
Asked  himself  what  were  the  pleasures  in  season. 
And  found,  since  the  calendar  bade  him  be  hearty. 
He  should  do  the  Middle  Age  no  treason 
In  resolving  on  a  hunting-party. 
Always  provided,  old  books  showed  the  way  of  it ! 
What  meant  old  poets  by  their  strictures  ? 
And  when  old  poets  had  said  their  say  of  it, 
How  taught  old  painters  in  their  pictures  ? 
We  must  revert  to  the  proper  channels. 
Workings  in  tapestry,  paintings  on  panels, 
And  gather  up  woodcraft's  authentic  traditions. 
Here  was  food  for  our  various  ambitions, 
As  on  each  case,  exactly  stated  — 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  201 

To  encourage  your  dog,  now,  the  properest  chirrup, 
Or  best  prayer  to  St.  Hubert  on  mounting  your 

stirrup  — 
We  of  the  household  took  thought  and  debated. 
Blessed  was  he  whoso  back  ached  with  the  jerkin 
His  sire  was  wont  to  do  forest- work  in  ; 
Blesseder  he  who  nobly  sunk  "  ohs  " 
And  "  ahs "  while    he  tugged  on  his  grandsire's 

trunk-hose  ; 
What  signified  hats  if  they  had  no  rims  on, 
Each  slouching  before  and  behind  like  the  scallop, 
And  able  to  serve  at  sea  for  a  shallop, 
Loaded  with  lacquer  and  looped  with  crimson  ? 
So  that  the  deer  now,  to  make  a  short  rhyme  on't. 
What  with  our  Venerers,  Prickers  and  Verderers, 
Might   hope  for  real  hunters  at  length    and  not 

murderers, 
And  oh,  the  Duke's  tailor  he  had  a  hot  time  on't  ! 

XI 

Now  you  must  know  that  when  the  first  dizziness 
Of  flap-hats  and  buff-coats  and  jack-boots  subsided. 
The  Duke  put  this  question,  "  The  Duke's  part 

provided 
Had  not  the  Duchess  some  share  in  the  business  ?  " 
For  out  of  the  mouth  of  two  or  three  witnesses 
Did  he  establish  all  fit-or-unfitnesses  : 
And,  after  much  laying  of  heads  together. 
Somebody's  cap  got  a  notable  feather 
By  the  announcement  with  proper  unction 


202  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

That  he  had  discovered  the  lady's  function  ; 
Since  ancient  authors  gave  this  tenet, 
"  When  horns  wind  a  mort  and  the  deer  is  at  siege, 
Let  the  dame  of  the  castle  prick  forth  on  her  jen- 
net. 
And  with  water  to  wash  the  hands  of  her  liege 
In  a  clean  ewer  with  a  fair  toweling, 
Let  her  preside  at  the  disemboweling." 
Now,  my  friend,  if  you  have  so  little  religion 
As  to  catch  a  hawk,  some  falcon-lanner. 
And  thrust  her  broad  wings  like  a  banner 
Into  a  coop  for  a  vulgar  pigeon  ; 
And  if  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 
You  cut  her  claws,  and  sealed  her  eyes. 
And  clipped  her  wings,  and  tied  her  beak, 
Would  it  cause  you  any  great  surprise 
If,  when  you  decided  to  give  her  an  airing, 
You  found  she  needed  a  little  preparing  ? 
—  I  say,  should  you  be  such  a  curmudgeon. 
If  she  clung  to  the  perch,  as  to  take  it  in  dudgeon  ? 
Yet  when  the  Duke  to  his  lady  signified. 
Just  a  day  before,  as  he  judged  most  dignified. 
In  what  a  pleasure  she  was  to  participate,  — 
And,  instead  of  leaping  wide  in  flashes. 
Her  eyes  just  lifted  their  long  lashes, 
As  if  pressed  by  fatigue  even  he  could  not  dissi- 
pate, 
And  duly  acknowledged  the  Duke's  forethought. 
But  spoke  of  her  health,  if  her  health  were  'worth 
aught. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THF  DUCHESS  203 

Of  the  weight  by  day  and  the  watch  by  night, 
And  much  wrong  now  that  used  to  be  right, 
So,  thanking  him,  declined  the  hunting, — 
Was  conduct  ever  more  affronting  ? 
With  all  the  ceremony  settled  — • 
With  the  towel  ready,  and  the  sewer 
Polishing  up  his  oldest  ewer. 
And  the  jennet  pitched  upon,  a  piebald. 
Black-barred,  cream-coated  and  pinkeye-balled, — 
No  wonder  if  the  Duke  was  nettled  ! 
And  when  she  persisted  nevertheless, — 
Well,  I  suppose  here's  the  time  to  confess 
That  there  ran  half  round  our  lady's  chamber 
A  balcony  none  of  the  hardest  to  clamber ; 
And  that  Jacynth  the  tire-woman,  ready  in  wait- 
ing. 
Stayed  in  call  outside,  what  need  of  relating  ? 
And  since  Jacynth  was  like  a  June  rose,  why,  a 

fervent 
Adorer  of  Jacynth  of  course  was  your  servant  ; 
And  if  she  had  the  habit  to  peep  through  the  case- 
ment, 
How  could  I  keep  at  any  vast  distance  ? 
And  so,  as  I  say,  on  the  lady's  persistence. 
The  Duke,  dumb  stricken  with  amazement, 
Stood  for  awhile  in  a  sultry  smotlier, 
And  then,  with  a  smile  that  partook  of  the  awful. 
Turned  her  over  to  his  yellow  mother 
To  learn  what  was  held  decorous  and  lawful  ; 
And  the  mother  smelt  blood  with  a  cat-like  instinct, 


204  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

As  her  cheek  quick  whitened  thro'  all  its  quince 

tinct. 
Oh,  but  the  lady  heard  the  whole  truth  at  once  ! 
What  meant  she  ?  —  Who  was  she  ?  —  Her  duty 

and  station, 
The  wisdom    of  age  and  the  folly   of  youth,    at 

once, 
Its  decent  regard  and  its  fitting  relation  — 
In  brief,  my  friend,  set  all  the  devils  in  hell  free 
And  turn  them  out  to  carouse  in  a  belfry 
And  treat  the  priests  to  a  fifty-part  canon. 
And  then  you  may  guess  how  that  tongue  of  hers 

ran  on  ! 
Well,  somehow  or  other  it  ended  at  last. 
And,  licking  her  whiskers,  out  she  passed  ; 
And  after  her,  —  making  (he  hoped)  a  face 
Like  Emperor  Nero  or  Sultan  Saladin, 
Stalked  the  Duke's  self  with  the  austere  grace 
Of  ancient  hero  or  modern  paladin. 
From  door  to  staircase  —  oh,  such  a  solemn 
Unbending  of  the  vertebral  column  ! 

XII 

However,  at  sunrise  our  company  mustered  ; 
And  here  was  the  huntsman  bidding  unkennel. 
And  there  'neath  his  bonnet  the  pricker  blustered 
With  feather  dank  as  a  bough  of  wet  fennel  ; 
For  the  court-yard  walls  were  filled  with  fog 
You  might  have  cut  as  an  ax  chops  a  log  — 
Like  so  much  avooI  for  color  and  bulkiness  ; 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS  205 

And  out  rode  the  Duke  in  a  perfect  sulkiness, 

Since,  before  breakfast,  a  man  feels  but  queasily, 

And  a  sinking  at  the  lower  abdomen 

Begins  the  day  with  indifferent  omen. 

And  lo,  as  he  looked  around  uneasily. 

The  sun  plowed  the  fog  up  and  drove  it  asunder, 

This  way  and  that,  from  the  valley  under  ; 

And,  looking  through  the  court-yard  arch, 

Down  in  the  valley,  what  should  meet  him 

But  a  troop  of  Gypsies  on  their  march  ? 

No  doubt  with  the  annual  gifts  to  greet  him. 

XIII 

Now,  in  your  land,  Gypsies  reach  you,  only 

After  reaching  all  lands  beside ; 

North  they  go.  South  they  go,  trooping  or  lonely. 

And  still,  as  they  travel  far  and  wide. 

Catch  they  and  keep  now  a  trace  here,  a  trac6 

there. 
That  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  place  here,  a  place 

there. 
But  with  us,^2 1  believe  they  rise  out  of  the  ground. 
And  nowhere  else,  I  take  it,  are  found 
With  the  earth-tint  yet  so  freshly  embrowned  ; 
Born,  no  doubt,  like  insects  which  breed  on 
The  very  fruit  they  are  meant  to  feed  on. 
For  the  earth  —  not  a  use  to  which  they  don't 

turn  it, 
The  ore  that  grows  in  the  mountain's  womb, 
Or  the  sand  in  the  pits  like  a  honeycomb, 


206  HAWTHOBNE   CLASSICS 

They  sift  and  soften  it,  bake  it  and  burn  it  — 

Whether  they  weld  you,  for  instance,  a  snaffle 

With  side-bars  never  a  brute  can  baffle ; 

Or  a  lock  that's  a  puzzle  of  wards  within  wards ; 

Or,  if  your  colt's  forefoot  inclines  to  curve  inwards, 

Horseshoes  they  hammer  which  turn  on  a  swivel 

And  won't  allow  the  hoof  to  shrivel. 

Then  they  cast  bells  like  the  shell  of  the  whikle. 

They  keep  a  stout  heart  in  the  ram  with  their 

tinkle  ; 
But  the  sand  —  they  pinch  and  pound  it  like  otters ; 
Commend  me  to  Gypsy  glass-makers  and  potters  ! 
Glasses  they'll  blow  you,  crystal-clear. 
Where  just  a  faint  cloud  of  rose  shall  aj^pear. 
As  if  in  pure  water  you  dropped  and  let  die 
A  bruised  black-blooded  mulberry  ; 
And  that  other  sort,  their  crowning  pride, 
With  long  white  threads  distinct  inside. 
Like  the  lake-flower's  fibrous  roots  which  dangle 
Loose  such  a  length  and  never  tangle. 
Where  the  bold  sword-lily  cuts  the  clear  waters, 
And  the    cup-lily  couches  with   all    the    white 

daughters  : 
Such  are  the  works  they  put  their  hand  to. 
The  uses  they  turn  and  twist  iron  and  sand  to. 
And  these  made  the  troop,  which  our  Duke  saw 

sally 
Toward  his  castle  from  out  of  tlie  valley, 
Men  and  women,  like  new-hatched  spiders. 
Come  out  with  the  morning  to  greet  our  riders. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  207 

And  up  they  wound  till  they  reached  the  ditch, 
Whereat  all  stopped  save  one,  a  witch 
That  I  knew,  as  she  hobbled  from  the  group, 
By  her  gait  directly  and  her  stoop, 
I,  whom  Jacynth  was  used  to  importune 
To  let  that  same  witch  tell  us  our  fortune. 
The  oldest  Gypsy  then  above  ground , 
And,  sure  as  the  autumn  season  came  round, 
She  paid  us  a  visit  for  profit  or  pastime, 
And  every  time,  as  she  swore,  for  the  last  time. 
And  presently  she  Avas  seen  to  sidle 
Up  to  the  Uuke  till  she  touched  his  bridle. 
So  that  the  horse  of  a  sudden  reared  up 
As  under  its  nose  the  old  witch  peered  up 
With  her  worn-out  eyes,  or  rather  eye-holes 
Of  no  use  now  but  to  gather  brine, 
And  began  a  kind  of  level  whine 
Such  as  they  used  to  sing  to  tlieir  viols 
When  their  ditties  they  go  grinding 
Up  and  down  with  nobody  minding. 
And  then,  as  of  old,  at  the  end  of  the  humming 
Her  usual  presents  were  forthcoming 
—  A  dog-whistle  blowing  the  fiercest  of  trebles, 
(Just  a  sea-shore  stone  holding  a  dozen  fine  pebbles,) 
Or  a  porcelain  mouth-piece  to  screw  on  a  pipe- 
end,  — 
And  so  she  awaited  her  annual  stipend. 
But  this  time,  the  I) Like  would  scarcely  vouchsafe 
A  word  in  reply  ;  and  in  vain  she  felt 
With  twitching  fingers  at  her  belt 


208  iiAwrnoBNE  classics 

For  tlie  purse  of  sleek  pine-marten  pelt, 
Ready  to  jDut  what  he  gave  in  her  pouch  safe,  — 
Till,  either  to  quicken  his  apprehension, 
Or  possibly  with  an  after-intention, 
She  was  come,  she  said,  to  pay  her  duty 
To  the  new  Duchess,  the  youthful  beauty. 
No  sooner  had  she  named  his  lady, 
Than  a  shine  lit  up  the  face  so  shady. 
And  its  smirk  returned  with  a  novel  meaning  : 
For  it  struck  him,  the  babe  just  wanted  weaning ;  ^^ 
If  one  gave  her  a  taste  of  what  life  was  and  sorrow 
She,  foolish  to-day,  would  be  wiser  to-morrow ; 
And  who  so  fit  a  teacher  of  trouble 
As  this  sordid  crone  bent  well-nigh  double  ? 
So,  glancing  at  her  wolf-skin  vesture, 
(If  such  it  was,  for  they  grow  so  hirsute 
That  their  own  fleece  serves  for  natural  fur-suit) 
He  was  contrasting,  'twas  plain  from  his  gesture, 
The  life  of  the  lady  so  flower-like  and  delicate 
With  the  loathsome  squalor  of  this  helicat. 
I,  in  brief,  was  the  man  the  Duke  beckoned^* 
From  out  of  the  throng :  and  while  I  drew  near 
He  told  the  crone  —  as  I  since  have  reckoned 
By  the  way  he  bent  and  spoke  into  her  ear 
With  circumspection  and  mystery  — 
The  main  of  the  lady's  history, 
Her  frowardness  and  ingratitude ; 
And  for  all  the  crone's  submissive  attitude 
I    could    see    round   her   mouth   the   loose    plaits 
tightening. 


THE   FLIGHT  OF  THE   DUCHESS  209 

And  her  brow  with  assenting  intelligence  bright- 
ening, 
As  though  she  engaged  with  hearty  goodwill 
Whatever  he  now  might  enjoin  to  fulfill, 
And  promised  the  lady  a  thorough  frightening.  ^^ 
And  so,  just  giving  her  a  glimpse 
Of  a  purse,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  imps 
The  wing  of  the  hawk  that  shall  fetch  the  hernshaw, 
He  bade  me  take  the  Gypsy  mother 
And  set  her  telling  some  story  or  other 
Of  hill  or  dale,  oak-wood  or  fernshaw, 
To  wile  away  a  weary  hour 
For  the  lady  left  alone  in  her  bower. 
Whose  mind  and  body  craved  exertion 
And  yet  shrank  from  all  better  diversion. 

XIV 
Then  clapping  heel  to  his  horse,  the  mere  eurveter, 
Out  rode  the  Duke,  and  after  his  hollo 
Horses  and  hounds  swept,  huntsman  and  servitor, 
And  back  I  turned  and  bade  the  crone  follow. 
And  what  makes  me  confident  what's  to  be  told 

you 
Had  all  along  been  of  this  crone's  devising. 
Is,  that,  on  looking  round  sharply,  behold  you. 
There  was  a  novelty  quick  as  surprising : 
For  first,  she  had  shot  up  a  full  head  in  stature, 
And  her  step  kept  pace  with  mine  nor  faltered. 
As  if  age  had  foregone  its  usurpature. 
And  the  ignoble  mien  was  wholly  altered, 


210  HAWTHOUNE   CLASSICS 

And  the  face  looked  quite  of  another  nature, 
And  the  change  reached  too,  whatever  the  change 

meant. 
Her  shaggy  wolf-skin  cloak's  arrangement : 
For  where  its  tatters  hung  loose  like  sedges. 
Gold  coins  were  glittering  on  the  edges. 
Like  the  band-roll  strung  with  tomans 
Which  proves  the  veil  a  Persian  woman's : 
And  under  her  brow,  like  a  snail's  horns  newly 
Come  out  as  after  the  rain  lie  paces. 
Two  unmistakable  eye-points  duly 
Live  and  aware  looked  out  of  their  places. 
So,  we  went  and  found  Jacynth  at  the  entry 
Of  the  lady's  chamber  standing  sentry. 
I  told  the  command  and  produced  my  companion, 
And  Jacynth  rejoiced  to  admit  any  one. 
For  since  last  night,  by  tlie  same  token. 
Not  a  single  word  had  the  lady  spoken. 
They  went  in  both  to  the  presence  together. 
While  I  in  the  balcony  watched  the  weather. 

XV 

And  now,  what  took  place  at  the  very  first  of  all, 

I  cannot  tell,  as  I  never  could  learn  it : 

Jacynth  constantly  wished  a  curse  to  fall 

On  that  little  head  of  hers  and  burn  it, 

If  she  knew  how  she  came  to  drop  so  soundly 

Asleep  of  a  sudden,  and  there  continue 

The  whole  time  sleeping  as  profoundly 

As  one  of  the  boars  my  father  would  pin  you 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  211 

'Twixt  the  eyes  where  life  holds  garrison, 

—  Jacynth,  forgive  me  the  comparison ! 

But  where  I  begin  my  own  narration 

Is  a  little  after  I  took  my  station 

To  breathe  the  fresh  air  from  the  balcony, 

And,  having  in  those  days  a  falcon  eye, 

To  follow  the  hunt  thro'  the  open  country. 

From  where  the  bushes  thinlier  crested 

The  hillocks,  to  a  plain  where's  not  one  tree. 

When,  in  a  moment,  my  ear  was  arrested 

By  —  was  it  singing,  or  was  it  saying. 

Or  a  strange  musical  instrument  playing 

In  the  chamber  ?  —  and  to  be  certain 

I  pushed  the  lattice,  pulled  the  curtain, 

And  there  lay  Jacynth  asleep, 

Yet  as  if  a  watch  she  tried  to  keep, 

In  a  rosy  sleep  along  the  floor 

With  her  head  against  the  door ; 

While  in  the  midst,  on  the  seat  of  state. 

Was  a  queen  —  the  Gypsy  woman  late. 

With  head  and  face  downbent 

On  the  lady's  head  and  face  intent : 

For,  coiled  at  her  feet  like  a  child  at  ease. 

The  lady  sat  between  her  knees. 

And  o'er  them  the  lady's  clasped  hands  met, 

And  on  those  hands  her  chin  was  set, 

And  her  upturned  face  met  the  face  of  the  crone 

Wherein  the  eyes  had  grown  and  grown 

As  if  she  could  double  and  quadruple 

At  pleasure  the  play  of  either  pupil 


212  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

—  Very  like,  by  lier  hands'  slow  fanning, 
As  up  and  down  like  a  gor-crow's  flappers 
They  moved  to  measure,  or  like  bell-clappers. 
I  said,  "  Is  it  blessing,  is  it  banning, 

Do  they  applaud  you  or  burlesque  you  — 
Those  hands  and  fiuQ-ers  with  no  flesh  on?  " 
But,  just  as  I  thought  to  spring  in  to  the  rescue. 
At  once  I  was  stopped  by  the  lady's  expression : 
For  it  was  life  her  eyes  were  drinking 
From  the  crone's  wide  pair  above  unwinking, 

—  Life's  pure  fire,  received  without  shrinking,^^ 
Into  the  heart  and  breast  whose  heaving 

Told  you  no  single  drop  they  were  leaving, 

—  Life,  that  filling  her,  passed  redundant 
Into  her  very  hair,  back  swerving 

Over  each  shoulder,  loose  and  abundant. 

As  her  head  thrown  back  showed  the  Avhite  throat 

curving ; 
And  the  very  tresses  shared  in  the  pleasure, 
Moving  to  the  mystic  measure. 
Bounding  as  the  bosom  bounded. 
I  stopped  short,  more  and  more  confounded, 
As  still  her  cheeks  burned  and  eyes  glistened, 
As  she  listened  and  she  listened. 
When  all  at  once  a  hand  detained  me, 
The  selfsame  contagion  gained  me. 
And  I  kept  time  to  the  wondrous  chime, 
Making  out  words  and  prose  and  rhyme, 
Till  it  seemed  that  the  music  furled 
Its  wings  like  a  task  fulfilled,  and  dropped 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  213 

From  under  the  words  it  first  had  propped, 
And  left  them  midway  in  tlie  world. 
Word  took  word  as  hand  takes  hand, 
I  could  hear  at  last,  and  understand  ; 
And  when  I  held  the  unbroken  thread, 
The  Gypsy  said  :  — 

"  And  so  at  last  we  find  my  tribe, 

And  so  I  set  thee  in  the  midst. 

And  to  one  and  all  of  them  describe 

What  thou  saidst  and  what  thou  didst. 

Our  long  and  terrible  journey  through. 

And  all  thou  art  ready  to  say  and  do 

In  the  trials  that  remain. 

I  trace  them  the  vein  and  the  other  vein 

That  meet  on  thy  brow  and  part  again 

Making  our  rapid  mystic  mark  ; 

And  I  bid  my  people  prove  and  probe 

Each  eye's  profound  and  glorious  globe 

Till  they  detect  the  kindred  spark  i" 

In  those  depths  so  dear  and  dark, 

Like  the  spots  that  snap  and  burst  and  flee, 

Circling  over  the  midnight  sea. 

And  on  that  round  young  cheek  of  thine 

I  make  them  recognize  the  tinge, 

As  when  of  the  costly  scarlet  wine 

They  drip  so  much  as  will  impinge 

And  spread  in  a  thinnest  scale  afloat 

One  thick  gold  drop  from  the  olive's  coat 

Over  a  silver  plate  whose  sheen 


214  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Still  through  the  mixture  shall  be  seen. 

For  so  I  prove  thee,  to  one  and  all, 

Fit,  when  my  people  ope  their  breast. 

To  see  the  sign,  and  hear  the  call, 

And  take  the  vow,  and  stand  the  test 

Which  adds  one  more  child  to  the  rest  — 

When  the  breast  is  bare  and  the  arms  are  wide. 

And  the  world  is  left  outside. 

For  there  is  probation  to  decree. 

And  many  and  long  must  the  trials  be 

Thou  shalt  victoriously  endure. 

If  that  brow  is  true  and  those  eyes  are  sure. 

Like  a  jewel-finder's  fierce  assay 

Of  the  prize  he  dug  from  its  mountain-tomb,  — 

Let  once  the  vindicating  ray 

Leap  out  amid  the  anxious  gloom. 

And  steel  and  fire  have  done  their  part. 

And  the  prize  falls  on  its  finder's  heart : 

So,  trial  after  trial  past. 

Wilt  thou  fall  at  the  very  .last 

Breathless,  half  in  trance 

With  the  thrill  of  the  great  deliverance, 

Into  our  arms  for  evermore  ; 

And  thou  shalt  know,  those  arms  once  curled 

About  thee,  what  we  knew  before, 

How  love  is  the  only  good  in  the  world. 

Henceforth  be  loved  as  heart  can  love, 

Or  brain  devise,  or  hand  approve  ! 

Stand  up,  look  below. 

It  is  our  life  at  thy  feet  we  throw 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  THE  DUCHESS  215 

To  step  with  into  light  and  joy  ; 

Not  a  power  of  life  but  we  employ 

To  satisfy  thy  nature's  want. 

Art  thou  the  tree  that  props  the  plant, 

Or  the  climbing  plant  that  seeks  the  tree  — 

Canst  thou  help  us,  must  we  help  thee? 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one, 

They  would  do  more  than  the  world  has  done ; 

Though  each  apart  were  never  so  weak, 

Ye  vainly  through  the  world  should  seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might 

Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right : 

So,  to  approach  at  least  that  end. 

And  blend,  —  as  much  as  may  be,  blend 

Thee  with  us  or  us  with  thee,  — 

As  climbing  plant  or  propping  tree, 

Shall  some  one  deck  thee  over  and  down. 

Up  and  about,  with  blossoms  and  leaves  ? 

Fix  his  heart's  fruit  for  thy  garland-crown, 

Clinof  with  his  soul  as  the  gourd-vine  cleaves, 

Die  on  thy  boughs  and  disappear 

While  not  a  leaf  of  thine  is  sere  ? 

Or  is  the  other  fate  in  store, 

And  art  thou  fitted  to  adore, 

To  give  thy  wondrous  self  away, 

And  take  a  stronger  nature's  sway? 

I  forsee  and  could  foretell 

Thy  future  portion,  sure  and  well : 

But  those  passionate  eyes  speak  true,  speak  true. 

Let  them  say  what  thou  shalt  do  I 


216  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Only  be  sure  thy  daily  life, 
In  its  peace  or  in  its  strife, 
Never  shall  be  unobserved ; 
We  pursue  thy  whole  career, 
And  hope  for  it,  or  doubt,  or  fear,  — 
Lo,  hast  thou  kept  thy  path  or  swerved, 
We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways, 
With  our  blame,  with  our  praise, 
Our  shame  to  feel,  our  pride  to  show, 
Glad,  angry  —  but  indifferent,  no  ! 
Whether  it  be  thy  lot  to  go. 
For  the  good  of  us  all,  where  the  haters  ^^  meet 
.In  the  crowded  city's  horrible  street; 
Or  thou  step  alone  through  tlie  morass 
Where  never  sound  yet  was 
Save  the  dry  quick  clap  of  the  stork's  bill, 
For  the  air  is  still,  and  the  water  still, 
When  the  blue  breast  of  the  dipping  coot 
Dives  under,  and  all  is  mute. 
So,  at  the  last  shall  come  old  age. 
Decrepit  as  befits  that  stage ; 
How  else  would st  thou  retire  apart 
With  the  hoarded  memories  of  thy  heart, 
And  gather  all  to  the  very  least 
Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast, 
Let  fall  through  eagerness  to  find 
The  crowning  dainties  yet  behind? 
Ponder  on  the  entire  past 
Laid  together  thus  at  last. 
When  the  twilight  helps  to  fuse 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  217 

The  first  fresh  witli  the  faded  hues, 

And  the  outline  of  the  whole, 

As  round  eve's  shades  their  framework  roll, 

Grandly  fronts  for  once  thy  soul ! 

And  then  as,  'mid  the  dark,  a  gleam 

Of  yet  another  morning  breaks. 

And  like  the  hand  which  ends  a  dream. 

Death,  with  the  might  of  his  sunbeam, 

Touches  the  flesh  and  the  soul  awakes. 

Then  —  " 

Ay,  then  indeed  something  would  happen  ! 
But  what  ?   For  here  her  voice  changed  like  a  bird's  ; 
There  grew  more  of  the  music  and  less  of  tlie  words  ; 
Had  Jacynth  only  been  by  me  to  clap  pen 
To  paper  and  put  you  down  every  syllable 
With  those  clever  clerkly  fingers, 
All  I've  forgotten  as  well  as  what  lingers 
In  this  old  brain  of  mine  that's  but  ill  able 
To  give  you  even  this  poor  version 
Of  the  speech  I  spoil,  as  it  were,  with  stammering 
—  More  fault  of  those  wdio  had  the  hammering 
Of  prosody  into  me  and  syntax. 
And  did  it,  not  with  hobnails  but  tintacks ! 
But  to  return  from  this  excursion,  — 
Just,  do  you  mark,  when  the  song  Avas  sweetest. 
The  peace  most  deep  and  the  charm  completest. 
There  came,  shall  I  say,  a  snap  — 
And  the  charm  vanished  ! 

And  my  sense  returned,  so  strangely  banished, 
And,  starting  as  from  a  nap, 


218  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

I  knew  the  crone  was  bewitching  my  lady, 

With  Jacynth  asleep ;  and  but  one  spring  made  1 

Down  from  the  casement,  round  to  the  portal,  — 

Another  minute  and  I  had  entered,  — 

When  the  door  opened,  and  more  than  mortal 

Stood,  with  a  face  where  to  my  mind  centered 

All  beauties  I  ever  saw  or  shall  see, 

The  Duchess :   I  stopped  as  if  struck  by  palsy. 

She  was  so  different,  happy  and  beautiful, 

I  felt  at  once  that  all  was  best. 

And  that  I  had  nothing  to  do,  for  the  rest. 

But  wait  her  commands,  obey  and  be  dutiful. 

Not  that,  in  fact,  there  was  any  commanding  ; 

I  saw  the  glory  of  her  eye. 

And  the  brow's  height  and  the  breast's  expanding, 

And  I  was  hers  to  live  or  to  die. 

As  for  finding  what  she  wanted. 

You  know  God  Almighty  granted 

Such  little  signs  should  serve  wild  creatures 

To  tell  one  another  all  their  desires. 

So  that  each  knows  what  his  friend  requires. 

And  does  its  bidtling  without  teachers. 

I  preceded  her  ;  the  crone 

Followed  silent  and  alone  ; 

I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  merely  jabbered 

In  the  old  style  ;  both  her  eyes  had  slunk 

Back  to  their  pits ;  her  stature  shrunk  ; 

In  short,  the  soul  in  its  body  sunk 

Like  a  blade  sent  home  to  its  scabbard. 

We  descended,  I  preceding  ; 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  THE  DUCHESS  219 

Crossed  the  court  with  nobody  heeding  ; 

All  the  world  was  at  the  chase, 

The  court-yard  like  a  desert-place, 

The  stable  emptied  of  its  small  fry  ; 

I  saddled  myself  the  very  palfrey 

I  remember  patting  while  it  carried  her, 

The  day  she  arrived  and  the  Duke  married  here 

And,  do  you  know,  though  it's  easy  deceiving 

Oneself  in  such  matters,  I  can't  help  believing 

The  lady  had  not  forgotten  it  either, 

And  knew  the  poor  devil  so  much  beneath  her 

Would  have  been  only  too  glad,  for  her  service. 

To  dance  on  hot  plowshares  like  a  Turk  dervise, 

But,  unable  to  pay  proper  duty  where  owing  it. 

Was  reduced  to  that  pitiful  method  of  showing  it  : 

For  though  the  moment  I  began  setting 

His  saddle  on  my  own  nag  of  Berold's  begetting, 

(Not  that  I  meant  to  be  obtrusive) 

She  stopped  me,  while  his  rug  was  shifting. 

By  a  single  rapid  finger's  lifting, 

And,  with  a  gesture  kind  but  conclusive. 

And  a  little  shake  of  the  head,  refused  me,  — 

I  say,  although  she  never  used  me, 

Yet  when  she  Avas  mounted,  the  Gypsy  behind  her, 

And  I  ventured  to  remind  her, 

I  suppose  with  a  voice  of  less  steadiness 

Than  usual,  for  my  feeling  exceeded  me, 

—  Something  to  the  effect  that  I  was  in  readiness 

Whenever  God  should  please  she  needed  me,  — 

Then,  do  you  know,  her  face  looked  down  on  me 


220  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

With  a  look  that  placed  a  crown  on  me, 

And  she  felt  in  her  bosom,  —  mark,  her  bosom  — 

And,  as  a  flower-tree  drops  its  blossom. 

Dropped  me  .   .   .  ah,  had  it  been  a  purse 

Of  silver,  my  friend,  or  gold  that's  worse, 

Why,  you  see,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 

So  understood,  ^^  —  that  a  true  heart  so  may  gain 

Such  a  reward,  —  I  should  have  gone  home  again, 

Kissed  Jacynth,  and  soberly  drowned  myself ! 

It  was  a  little  plait  of  hair 

Such  as  friends  in  a  convent  make 

To  wear,  each  for  the  other's  sake,  — 

This,  see,  which  at  my  breast  I  wear. 

Ever  did  (rather  to  Jacynth's  grudgment), 

And  ever  shall,  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

And  tlien,  —  and  then,  —  to  cut  short,  —  this  is  idle. 

These  are  feelings  it  is  not  good  to  foster,  — 

I  pushed  the  gate  wide,  she  shook  the  bridle, 

And  the  palfrey  bounded,  —  and  so  vi^e  lost  her. 

XVI 

When  the  liquor's  out  why  clink  the  cannikin  ?  ^o 

I  did  think  to  describe  you  the  panic  in 

The  redoubtable  breast  of  our   master  the  man- 

nikin, 
And  what  was  the  pitch  of  his  mother's  yellowness. 
How  she  turned  as  a  shark  to  snap  the  spare-rib 
Clean  off,  sailors  say,  from  a  pearl-diving  Carib, 
When  she  heard,  what  she  called  the  flight  of  the 

feloness 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHEtiS  221 

—  But  it  seems  such  child's  play, 
What  they  said  and  did  with  the  lady  away  ! 
And  to  dance  on,  when  we've  lost  the  music, 
Always  made  me  —  and  no  doubt   makes  you  — 

sick. 
Nay,  to  my  mind,  tlie  world's  face  looked  so  stern 
As  that  sweet  form  disappeared  through  the  pos- 
tern, 
She  that  kept  it  in  constant  good  humor. 
It  ought  to  have  stopped  ;  there  seemed  nothing 

to  do  more. 
But  the  world  thought  otherwise  and  went  oh. 
And  my  head's  one  that  its  spite  was  spent  on  : 
Thirty  years  are  fled  since  that  morning. 
And  with  them  all  my  head's  adorning. 
Nor  did  the  old  Ducliess  die  outright. 
As  you  expect,  of  suppressed  spite. 
The  natural  end  of  every  adder 
Not  suffered  to  empty  its  poison-bladder  : 
But  she  and  her  son  agreed,  I  take  it, 
That  no  one  should  touch  on  the  story  to  wake  it. 
For  the  wound  in  the  Duke's  pride  rankled  fiery  ; 
So,  they  made  no  search  and  small  inquiry  : 
And  when  fresh  Gypsies  have  paid  us  a  visit,  I've 
Noticed  the  couple  were  never  inquisitive. 
But  told  them  they're  folks  the  Duke  don't  want 

here. 
And  bade  them  make  haste  and  cross  the  frontier. 
Brief,    the  Duchess  was  gone  and  the  Duke  was 
glad  of  it. 


222  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  the  old  one  was  in  the  young  one's  stead, 
And  took,  in  her  phice,  the  household's  head, 
And  a  blessed  time  the  household  had  of  it  ! 
And  were  I  not,  as  a  man  may  say,  cautious 
How  I  trench,  more  than  needs,  on  the  nauseous, 
I  could  favor  you  with  sundry  touches 
Of  the  paint-smutches  with  which  the  Duchess 
Heightened  the  mellowness  of  her  cheek's  yellow- 
ness 
(To  get  on  faster)  until  at  last  her 
Cheek  grew  to  be  one  master-plaster 
Of  mucus  and  fucus  from  mere  use  of  ceruse  ; 
In  short,  she  grew  from  scalp  to  udder 
Just  the  object  to  make  you  shudder. 

XVII 

You're  my  friend  — 

What  a  tiling  friendship  is,  workl  without  end  ? 

How  it  gives  the  heart  and  soul  a  stir-up 

As  if  somebody  broached  you  a  glorious  runlet, 

And  poured  out,  all  lovelily,  sparkingly,  sunlit. 

Our  green  Moldavia,  the  streaky  sirup, 

Cotnar  as  old  as  the  time  of  the  Druids  — 

Friendship  may  match  with  that  monarch  of  fluids; 

Each    supples  a  dry  brain,  fills    you  its  ins-and- 

outs. 
Gives  your  life's  hour-glass  a  shake  when  tlie  thin 

sand  doubts 
Whether  to  run  on  or  to  stop  short,  and  guarantees 
Age  is  not  all  made  of  stark  sloth  and  arrant  ease. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  223 

I  have  seen  my  little  lady  once  more, 
Jacynth,  the  Gypsy,  Berold,  and  the  rest  of  it. 
For  to  me  spoke  the  Duke,  as  I  told  you  before  ; 
I  always  wanted  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  : 
And  now  it  is  made  —  why,  my  heart's  blood,  that 

went  trickle, 
Trickle,  but  anon,  in  such  muddy  driblets, 
Is   pumped  up  brisk  now,  through  the  main  ven- 
tricle. 
And  genially  floats  me  about  the  giblets. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do  : 
I  must  see  this  fellow  his  sad  life  through  — 
He  is  our  Duke,  after  all,  ^i 
And  I,  he  sayg,  but  a  serf  and  thrall. 
My  father  was  born  here,  and  I  inherit 
His  fame,  a  chain  he  bound  his  son  with  : 
Could  I  pay  in  a  lump  I  should  prefer  it. 
But  there's  no  time  to  blow  up  and  get  done  with; 
So,  I  must  stay  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
For,  as  to  our  middle-age-manners-adapter, 
Be  it  a  thing  to  be  glad  on  or  sorry  on, 
Some  day  or  other,  his  head  in  a  morion 
And  breast  in  a  hauberk,  his  heels  he'll  kick  up. 
Slain  by  an  onslaught  fierce  of  hiccup. 
And  then,  when  red  doth  the  sword  of  our  Duke 

rust. 
And  its  leathern  sheath  lie  o'ergrown  with  a  blue 

crust. 
Then  I  shall  scrape  together  my  earnings  ; 
For,  you  see,  in  the  churchyard  Jacynth  reposes, 


224  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

And  our  cliilclren  all  went  the  way  of  the  roses  ; 

It's  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turnings. 

One  needs  but  little  tackle  to  travel  in  ; 

So,  just  one  stout  cloak  shall  I  indue  : 

And  for  a  staff,  what  beats  the  javelin 

With  which  his  boars  my  father  pinned  you  ? 

And  then  for  a  purpose  you  shall  hear  presently. 

Taking  some  Cotnar,  a  tight  plump  skinful, 

I  shall  go  journeying,  who  but  I,  pleasantly  ! 

Sorrow  is  vain  and  despondency  sinful. 

What's  a  man's  age  ?     He  must  hurry  more,  that's 

all; 
Cram  in  a  day,  what  his  youth  took  a  year  to  hold: 
When  we  mind  labour,  then  only,  w.e're  too  old  — 
What  age  had  Methusalem  when  he  begat  Saul  ?  ^ 
And  at  last,  as  its  haven  some  buffeted  ship  sees, 
(Come  all  the  way  from  the  north-parts  with  sperm 

oil) 
I  hope  to  get  safely  out  of  the  turmoil 
And  arrive  one  day  at  the  land  of  the  Gypsies, 
And  find  my  lady,  or  hear  the  last  news  of  her 
From  some  old  thief  and  son  of  Lucifer, 
His  forehead  chapleted  green  with  wreathy  hop. 
Sunburned  all  over  like  an  ^Ethiop. 
And  when  my  Cotnar  begins  to  operate 
And  the  tongue  of  the  rogue  to  run  at  a  proper 

rate. 
And  our  wine-skin,  tight  once,  shows  each  flaccid 

dent, 
I  shall  drop  in  with  —  as  if  by  accident  — 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  225 

"  You  never  knew  then,  how  it  all  ended, 
What  fortune  good  or  bad  attended 
The  little  lady  your  Queen  befriended  ?  " 

—  And  when  that's  told  me,  what's  remaining  ? 
This  world's  too  hard  for  my  explaining. 

The  same  wise  judge  of  matters  equine 

Who  still  preferred  some  slim  four-year-old 

To  the  big-boned  stock  of  mighty  Berold, 

And,  for  strong  Cotnar,  drank  French  weak  wine, 

He  also  must  be  such  a  lady's  scorner  ! 

Smooth  Jacob  still  robs  homely  Esau  :  ^3 

Now  up,  now  down,  the  world's  one  see-saw. 

—  So,  I  shall  find  out  some  snug  corner 
Under  a  hedge,  like  Orson  ^^  the  wood-knight. 
Turn  myself  round  and  bid  the  world  good-night ; 
And  sleep  a  sound  sleep  till  the  trumpet's  blowing 
Wakes  me  (unless  priests  cheat  us  laymen,) 

To  a  world  where  will  be  no  further  throwing 
Pearls  before  swine  that  can't  value  them.    Amen. 


226  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

MICHAEL 

A   PASTORAL   POEM 

BY   WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 

Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll,^ 

You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 

Your  feet  must  struggle  ;  in  such  bold  ascent 

The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 

But,  courage  !   for  around  that  boisterous  brook 

The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves, 

And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  can  be  seen,  but  they 

Who  journey  hither  find  themselves  alone 

With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and  kites 

That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 

It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude ; 

Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  Dell 

But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 

Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 

Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones  ! 

And  to  that  place  a  story  appertains, 

Which,  though  it  be  ungarnished  with  events, 

Is  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside. 

Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 

Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 

Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,^  men 

Whom  I  already  loved  ;  —  not  verily 


MICHAEL  227 

For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  liills 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 

And  hence  this  tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  Boy 

Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 

Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 

Of  natural  objects  led  me  on  to  feel 

For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 

(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 

On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 

Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 

Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 

For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts ; 

And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 

Of  youthful  Poets,  who  among  these  hills 

Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  Forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name  ; 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength :  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs. 
And  in  his  Shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone  ;  and,  oftentimes. 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  South 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 


228  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Bethought  him,  and  lie  to  himself  would  say, 
"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me !  " 
And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm  —  that  drives 
The  traveler  to  a  shelter  —  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains :  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists. 
That  came  to  him  and  left  him  on  the  heights. 
So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 
And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 
That  the  green  Valleys  and  the  Streams  and  Rocks, 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  Shepherd's  thoughts.^ 
Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had  breathed 
The  common  air ;   the  hills,  which  he  so  oft 
Had  climbed  with  vigorous  steps ;   which  had  im- 
pressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear ; 
Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory 
Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 
Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts. 
The  certainty  of  honorable  gain. 
Those  fields,  those  hills  —  what  could  they  less? 

—  had  laid 
Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love. 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  singleness. 
His  Helpmate  was  a  comely  Matron,  old  — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 


MICHAEL  229 

She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 

Whose  heart  was  in  her  house  :  two  wheels  she  had 

Of  antique  form,  this  large  for  spinning  wool. 

That  small  for  flax ;  and  if  one  wheel  had  rest, 

It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 

The  Pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house, 

An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 

When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 

To  deem  that  he  was  old,  —  in  Shepherd's  phrase, 

With  one  foot  in  the  grave.      This  only  son 

With  two  brave  Sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a  storm. 

The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 

Made  all  their  household.      I  may  truly  say, 

That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 

For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone, 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 

The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even  then 

Their  labor  did  not  cease ;  unless  wlien  all 

Turned  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there. 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk. 

Sat  round  their  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes, 

And  their  plain   home-made  cheese.      Yet  when 

their  meal 
Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 
And  his  old  Father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fireside  ;  perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  Housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 


230  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's  edge, 
That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
Did  with  a  huge  projection  overbrow 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a  Lamp  ; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late, 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours. 
Which,  going  by  from  3^ear  to  year,  had  found. 
And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 
Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes. 
Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 
And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth 

year 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sat, 
"Father  and  Son,  while  late  into  the  night 
The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work. 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  tlie  sound  of  summer  flies. 
This  Light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood. 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 
That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it  chanced. 
Their  Cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood    single,    with    large    prospect.    North    and 

South, 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 
And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  Lake  ;  * 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself,  by  all 


MICHAEL  231 

Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 
Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Evening 
Star. 

Thus  living  on  through  sucli  a  length  of  years, 
The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate  ;  but  to  Michael's  heart 
This  Son  of  his  old  age  Avas  yet  more  dear  — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  spirit,  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all  — 
Than  that  a  child  more  than  all  other  gifts. 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts. 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him. 
His  Heart  and  his  Heart's  joy  !     For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms. 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness  ;   and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love. 
Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  Young-one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sat 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  Shepherd's  stool. 
Beneath  that  large  old  Oak,  which  near  their  door 


232  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

Stood,  —  and,  from  its  enormous  breadth  of  shade 
Chosen  for  tlie  sliearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping^  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade. 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  witli  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 

And  when  by   Heaven's   good   grace   the   Boy 
grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old. 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  Shepherd's  Staff, 
And  gave  it  to  the  Boy ;   wherewith  equipped 
He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock ; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called. 
There  stood  the  Urchin,  as  you  Avill  divine. 
Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help ; 
And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise  ; 
Though  naught  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or  voice. 
Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could  perform. 


MICHAEL  233 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts  ;  and  to  the  heights. 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 
He  with  his  Father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now  ?  that  from  the  Boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations  —  things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind ; 
And  that  the  old  Man's  heart  seemed  born  again  ? 

Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  boy  grew  up : 
And  now,  when  he  had   reached    his    eighteenth 

year. 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  Household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
•Distressful  tidings.     Long  before  the  time 
Of  Avhich  I  speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  suret}^  for  his  Brother's  Son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means,  — 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  pressed  upon  liim,  —  and  old  Michael  now 
Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.     This  unlooked-for  claim, 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 


234  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

As  soon  as  he  had  gathered  so  much  strength 
That  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face, 
It  seemed  that  his  sole  refuge  was  to  sell 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve ;  he  thought  again, 
And  his  heart  failed  him.     "  Isabel,"  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived ;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot ;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I ; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.      An  evil  Man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us ;  and  if  he  were  not  false. 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.     I  forgive  him  —  but 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies,  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel ;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ; 
He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know'st. 
Another  Kinsman  —  he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.      He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade  —  and  Luke  to  him  shall  go. 


MICHAEL  235 

And  with  his  Kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
May  come  again  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done  ?     Where  every  one  is  poor, 
What  can   be  gained  ? "     At   this   the    old   JNIan 

paused. 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  .she  to  herself. 
He  was  a  Parish -boy  —  at  the  Church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings,  pence. 
And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the  neiglibors  bought 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  peddler's  wares ; 
And,  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  Lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  Master  there, 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  Boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas :  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich. 
And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor, 
And,  at  his  birth-place,  built  a  Chapel  floored 
With  marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands. 
These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  Man  was  glad, 
And  thus  resumed  :  —  "  Well,  Isabel !  this  scheme, 
These  two  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
We  have  enough  —  I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger, — but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 
—  Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 


236  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 
To-morrow,  or  tlie  next  day,  or  to-niglit : 
—  If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night." 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light,  heart.     The  Housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  ^  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work :   for  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  two  last  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep  : 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  day  at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "Thou  must  not  go: 
We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember  —  do  not  go  away. 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die." 
The  Youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice ; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears. 
Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work  ; 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  Spring  :  at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  Kinsman  came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 


MICHAEL  237 

His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy  ; 
To  which,  requests  were  added,  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over  ;   Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neiglibors  round  ; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     Wlien  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  Man  said, 
"  He  shall  depart  to-morrow."     To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go. 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  Valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  Sheep-fold  ;   and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss. 
For  this  same  purpose  lie  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  Streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked  ; 
And  soon  as  had  they  reached  the  place  he  stopped 
And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him  :  —  "  My  Son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me  :    with  full  heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth. 
And  all  thy  life  has  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories  ;  'twill  do  thee  good 


238  HAWTTIOBNE  CLASSICS 

When  tliou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  speak 
Of  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.  —  After  thou 
First  earnest  into  the  world  —  as  oft  befalls 
To  new-born  infants  —  thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  Father's  tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.      Day  by  day  passed  on. 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune  ; 
When  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 
Sing   at    thy  Mother's  breast.       Month   followed 

month. 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And  on  the  mountains  ;  else  I  think  that  thou 
Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's  knees. 
But  we  were  playmates,  Luke  :  among  these  hills, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart  ;  but  at  these  words 
He  sobbed  aloud.     The  old  Man  grasped  his  hand, 
And  said,  "  Na}-,  do  not  take  it  so  —  I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 
—  Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
A  kind  and  a  good  Father  :   and  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received  at  others'  hands  ;   for,  though  now  old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  1  still 
liemember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 


MICHAEL  239 

Both  of  them  sleep  together  :  here  they  lived, 

As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done  ;  and  Avhen 

At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loth 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mold. 

I  wished  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life  they  lived. 

But,  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  Son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 

These  fields  were  burdened  when  they  came  to  me, 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toiled  and  toiled  ;   God  blessed  me  in  my  work, 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

—  It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 

Another  Master.      Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That   thou  shouldst  go."      At  this  the  old   jNIan 

paused  ; 
Then,   pointing  to    the  Stones    near  which    they 

stood. 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed  : 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us  ;   and  now,  my  Son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.     But,  lay  one  stone  — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands, 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope  ;  —  we  both  may  live 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale  ;  —  do  thou  thy  part ; 
I  will  do  mine.  —  I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee  : 
l"p  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms. 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 


240  HAWTHORNE  CLASSICS 

All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone, 
Before  I  knew  thy  face.  —  Heaven  bless  thee,  Boy! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 
With  many  hopes.  — It  should  be  so — Yes —  yes — 
I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke  ;  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love  :   when  thou  art  gone 
What  will  be  left  to  us  !  —  But,  I  forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 
As  I  requested  ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 
And  of  this  moment  ;  hither  turn  thy  thoughts. 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee  :   amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers  lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.    Now,  fare  thee  well- 
When  thou  returnest,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here  :  a  covenant 
'Twill  be  between  us — But,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last. 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  Shepherd  ended  here  ;  and   Luke  stooped 
down. 
And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.     At  the  sight 
The  old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him  ;  to  his  heart 
He  pressed  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept  ; 


MICHAEL  241 

And  to  the  lioiise  together  they  returned. 

—  Hushed  was  that   House  in  peace,  or  seeming 

peace, 
Ere   the    night  fell  :  —  with  morrow's  dawn  the 

Boy 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face  ; 
And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their  doors, 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come. 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing  :  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 
Which,  as  the  Housewife  phrased  it,  were  through-» 

out 
"  The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 
So,  many  months  passed  on  :   and  once  again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts  ;  and  noAV 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought   at   the    Sheep-fold.       Meantime     Luke 

began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty  ;  and,  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses  :  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 


242  HAWTHOBNE  CLASSICS 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love  ; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart  : 
I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  old  Man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  liad  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.      Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  toward  the  sun, 
And  listened  to  the  wind  ;   and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  liis  Sheep, 
And  for  the  land  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  Dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  iieed.     'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  Man  —  and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went, 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 

There,  by  the  Sheep-fold,  sometimes  was  he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  Dog, 
Then  old,  -beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time, 
He  at  the  building  of  his  sheep-fold  wrought 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  Avhen  he  died. 
Three  j^ears,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  Husband :   at  her  death  the  estatfe 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  liand. 
The  Cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening  Star 


MICHAEL  243 

Ls    gone — the    plowshare   has    been    throngh    the 

ground 
On    which   it    stood  ;    great  changes    have    been 

wrought 
In  all  the  neighborhood  :  —  yet  the  Oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door ;  and  the  remains 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll. 


NOTES 

HORATIUS 

It  was  the  theory  of  jSTiebuhr  that  the  history  of  early 
Rome  was  preserved  to  later  generations  in  ballad  poetry, 
not  unlike  the  poems  on  "  The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot "  and 
"  The  Battle  of  Otterburn  "  in  "  Ballads  and  Ballad  Poetry." 
Macaulay  wrote  "  The  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  "  to  reproduce, 
in  a  way,  what  these  poems  might  have  been.  Hence  he 
notes  the  time  that  the  poem  is  supposed  to  have  been 
written,  rather  more  than  a  century  after  the  events  which 
it  tells  of. 

1.  Tarquinius  Superbus,  or  "the  Proud,"  was  the  seventh 
king  of  Rome.  He  was  expelled  by  the  people,  and  Rome 
became  a  republic.  Tarquin  sought  aid  of  Lars  Porsena,  the 
head  of  a  confederation  of  cities  in  Etruria. 

2.  The  towns  here  mentioned  were  almost  all  in  northern 
Italy. 

3.  The  Etruscan  writing,  like  the  Hebrew,  ran  from  right 
to  left. 

4.  Certain  shields  preserved  at  Rome,  which  were  sup- 
posed to  have  fallen  from  heaven. 

5.  The  Senators. 

6.  The  Consul  was  one  of  the  two  chief  execiitive  officers 
at  Rome. 

7.  Notice  the  effect  caused  by  repeating  tlie  rhyming  hues, 
and  compare  with  xxxv,  xlix,  and  any  others  you  can  find. 

8.  The  Romans  were  divided  into  three  main  divisions, 
or  tribes,  the  Ramnes,  the  Titles,  the  Luceres,  which  were 
further  subdivided  into  families. 

245 


246  NOTES 

9.  The  presumed  writer  evidently  lived  in  the  midst  of 
party  quarrels. 

10.  The  Tribunes  were  officers  appointed  to  guard  the 
rights  of  the  people. 

11.  Romulus,  the  founder  of  Rome,  had,  according  to  the 
legend,  been  suckled  by  a  she-wolf. 

12.  Palatinus  was  one  of  the  seven  hills  of  Rome. 

13.  A  part  of  the  Forum. 

SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM 

This  poem  is  written  as  though  it  were  a  part  of  a  longer 
epic  poem,  let  us  say  the  national  epic  of  Persia,  in  which 
RustLim,  the  national  hero  of  Persia,  was  a  chief  figure. 
The  story  of  Sohrab  and  Rustum  was  that  when  Sohrab 
was  born,  his  mother  sent  word  to  Rustum,  who  was  away 
on  an  adventure,  that  their  child  was  a  girl  (p.  48). 
Rustum  was  displeased,  continued  his  adventure,  and  did 
not  return.  Sohrab,  then,  was  brought  up  without  knowl- 
edge of  his  father,  among  the  Tartars.  He  became  a 
famous  warrior,  and  took  part  in  the  Tartar  invasion  of 
Persia,  always  seeking  for  his  father,  of  whom  his  mother 
had  told  him. 

1.  The  geography  may  be  made  out  on  a  good  map  of 
Western  Asia.  The  Oxus  and  the  Jaxartes,  the  Caspian 
and  the  Aral  Seas,  Bokhara  and  Khorassan,  Samarcand  and 
Cabul,  may  be  readily  identified.  The  names  give  us  the 
idea  of  a  vast  land,  but  dimly  known  to  us,  where  heroic 
deeds  of  arms  took  place  long  since. 

2.  Note  the  greater  simplicity  on  the  part  of  the  Tartars. 
The  Persians  were  a  more  settled,  civilized,  and  luxurious 
people. 

3.  A  fight  in  which  every  one  is  engaged.  So  a  line  or 
two  below. 

4.  This  rather  elaborate  simile  is  characteristic  of  the 
classic  poetry  which  Arnold  admired.     Several  others  will 


NOTES  247 

be  noted  in  this  poem,  eacli  a  clear,  sharp  picture,  often 
beautiful  in  itself.  In  distinction  one  must  notice  some 
metaphors  which  are  different.     For  instance  — 

"For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  fate." 

Here  the  feeling  is  perhaps  stronger,  for  the  speaker  mingles 
himself  in  his  figure,  but  the  picture  is  not  so  clear-cut. 

5.  The  following  passage  is  also  of  classic  character. 
The  detailed  description  of  the  Tartar  and  the  Persian  hosts 
and  the  suggestive  use  of  geographical  names  are  note- 
worthy. 

(1.  This  was  of  course  the  cause  of  all  the  evil  that 
followed.  Whether  we  are  to  lay  the  blame  on  Sohrab's 
mother,  who  liad  feared  that  her  son  would  be  taken  from 
her  to  Persia,  or  on  Rustum,  may  be  doubtful.  Certainly 
it  does  not  rest  on  Sohrab  himself. 

7.  This  is  the  poet's  irony.  Rustum  says  something 
of  which  he  cannot  know  the  full  significance.  So  again, 
in  Rustum 's  first  speech  to  Sohrab,  and  in  Sohrab's  words 
after  Rustum's  first  attack. 

8.  Here,  had  the  actors  known  the  truth,  all  might  have 
been  well.  But  they  were  ignorant,  and  fate  brings  about 
the  catastrophe. 

9.  One  will  notice  how  the  account  of  the  battle  grows 
and  gains  in  intensity  until  the  great  moment,  and  then 
turns  to  sudden  calm. 

10.  It  is  an  Eastern  tale,  and  Fate,  therefore,  is  the  ruling 
power.  Fate  calls  in  human  action  to  carry  out  its  plans  and 
avails  herself  of  human  weakness,  as  the  fears  of  Sohrab's 
mother  and  the  pride  of  Rustum.  She  blinds  the  eyes  that 
come  near  seeing  the  truth,  as  twice  or  thrice  in  the  poem, 
and  in  the  end  all  is  accomplished  according  to  her  decrees. 

11.  The  end  of  the  poem  is  very  beautiful.  Leaviug 
the  sorrows  of  humanity,  the  poet  takes  a  type  from  nature, 
and  follows  in  his  mind  the   noble  river  which  flows  on 


248  NOTES 

through    every   obstacle    and    delay,  until   it    reaches    its 
peaceful  home  in  the  great  sea. 

ENOCH   ARDEN 

This  poem  was  one  of  the  first  of  Tennyson's  longer 
narrative  poems.  It  became  at  once  popular  and  has 
remained  so,  although  general  taste  at  present  finds  more 
in  the  poems  of  King  Arthur's  knighthood,  which  came 
mostly  later.  But  although  the  characters  and  scenery  of 
"Enoch  Arden "  are  less  romantic  than  those  of  "The 
Idylls  of  the  King,"  the  character  of  the  poems  is  almost 
exactly  the  same ;  there  is  the  same  close  observation  of 
nature  and  human  nature,  the  same  skill  in  general 
narrative  and  specific  description. 

1.  A  liill ;  the  barroir.'^  are  the  mounds  over  ancient 
graves,  of  which  many  remain,  memorials  of  the  Danish 
occupation  of  England. 

2.  Always. 

3.  Sloping. 

4.  Willow-basket. 

5.  The  Ilall  was  the  seat  of  some  great  family.  The 
gates  were  guarded  by  stone  lions,  and  within  the  yew  trees 
were  cut  in  patterns. 

6.  AVe  must  remember  the  serious  gravity  of  Enoch's 
character. 

7.  Makes  an  island  of.  The  nffiNt/  is  seaman \s  phrase  for 
off  at  a  distance  at  sea. 

8.  As  if  Annie  had  protested  that  the  words  were  harsh. 

9.  I]noch  has  the  Puritan  familiarity  with  the  Bible  — 
here  Psalms  139  and  9."). 

10.  A  little  roundabout  for  paying  the  doctor. 

11.  The  rhythm  of  tlie  line  answers  singularly  well  to 
tlie  thought  ;  there  is  harmony  of  rhythm,  though  here  not 
melody. 

12.  The   idle   talk   of   people  who   know    nothing   about 


NOTES  249 

a  matter  and  mean  nothing,  but  have  nothing  better  to  do  at 
the  moment  than  to  talk  of  their  neighbors. 

13.  A  very  curious  figure.  If  one  try  to  realize  it,  it  will 
be  found  exact. 

14.  They  were  displeased  to  find  that  things  were  not 
turning  out  according  to  their  suppositions. 

15.  The  idea  of  determining  the  will  of  God  by  what 
seems  to  the  human  mind  chance  has  been  common  at  all 
times,  although  nowadays  only  among  the  uneducated. 
The  reader  may  remember  the  casting  of  lots  at  the  be- 
ginning of  "  Silas  Marner."  In  Annie's  case,  if  there  were 
any  meaning  in  the  coincidence,  she  misinterpreted  it,  not 
reraembei'ing  that  palms  were  actual  trees  and  common  in 
that  part  of  the  world  in  which  Enoch  liad  been  last  heard 
of. 

16.  I.e.  so  utterly  ignorant  of  man  that  a  man  caused  no 
alarm. 

17.  Making  a  canoe  of  it. 

18.  The  rhythm  echoes  the  thought. 

19.  Like  Annie,  he  has  a  presentiment  of  truth,  but  does 
not  know  what  it  means. 

20.  The  white  cliffs  seem  ghostly  in  the  moonlight. 

CHRISTABEL 

The  first  part  of  "  Christabel  "  was  written  in  1797,  but  was 
not  published  till  1816.  Even  then  only  this  one  part  and 
a  portion  of  a  second  were  published,  out  of  the  four  of 
which  the  poem  was  to  have  consisted.  Hence  the  poem 
has  no  completeness  of  conception,  and  we  value  it  really,  not 
so  much  for  the  story,  the  idea,  as  for  the  imaginative 
manner.  AVe  sliould  be  glad,  of  course,  to  have  all,  but  as 
it  is,  we  get  a  romantic,  a  poetic,  thrill  from  what  we  have. 
It  should  not,  however,  be  read  by  those  who  must  know 
"  how  the  story  turns  out."  It  was  one  of  the  first  of  the 
great  romantic  poems  of  modern  English  literature,  earlier 


250  NOTES 

than  any  others  in  our  book,  and  its  influence  has  been  great. 
In  two  directions  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  how  significant  it 
was :  its  feeling  for  the  Middle  Ages  we  meet  again  in 
"  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  " ;  its  touch  of  nature  and  of  life 
in  "Michael."  In  reading  the  poem,  however,  we  want 
something  more  than  an  understanding  of  its  historical 
position;  we  want  to  appreciate  the  intensity  of  the 
imagination  which  seemed  in  these  few  hundred  lines  to 
give  a  sublimation,  a  quintessence,  of  the  romantic  spirit. 
That  is  not  so  easy  now,  for  since  Coleridge  many  poets  have 
liandled  the  material  that  stirred  his  thoughts,  and  feudal 
castles  and  midnight  forests  have  become  a  little  common- 
place. But  nobody  has  felt  these  things  just  as  Coleridge 
did ;  there  is  a  sincerity  and  genuineness  about  his  work 
that  gives  it  rather  a  peculiar  character  in  our  minds,  a  sort 
of  distinction,  making  picture  and  verse  linger  there  long 
after  the  rhymes  of  many  whose  romance  was  belated  or 
secondhand  have  ]iassed  out  of  our  thoughts. 

The  meter  of  the  poem  may  cause  difficulty ;  it  was 
somewhat  of  an  innovation  in  its  own  day.  The  irregu- 
larity of  the  rhymes  will  cause  no  trouble,  Itut  the  irregular 
number  of  syllables  may  not  be  at  once  understood.  It  was 
Coleridge's  idea  to  have  a  like  number  of  accents  (four) 
in  each  line,  and  to  have  the  number  of  syllables  vary 
according  to  his  convenience  or  idea.     Thus 

"  'Tis  the  mid'dle  of  night'  by  the  cas'tle  clock'  —  " 

"  Tu'-whit'  -  Tu'-whoo'  —  " 

"  Six'teen  short'  howls  not'  over  loud'  —  " 

These  lines,  though  they  look  very  different,  are  all  of 
the  same  accentual  value,  and  if  the  [toem  be  read  chiefly 
with  respect  to  the  accent,  the  varying  number  of  syllables 
will  be  found  to  give  a  pleasant,  and  often  very  harmoniotis, 

effect. 


NOTES  251 


THE   EVE   OF   ST.   AGNES 

The  story  is  told  in  a  series  of  scenes  intensely  realized. 

1.  The  owl  generally  seems  so  plump  and  comfortable. 

2.  The  Beadsman  was  one  who  offered  prayers  for  those 
who  had  given  him  alms,  a  prayers-man. 

"  Commend  thy  grievance  to  my  lioly  prayers, 
And  I  will  be  thy  l)eadsman.'' 

—  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  I,  i,  IS. 

3.  It  aroused  for  the  instant  happy  feelings  whicli 
brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

4.  The  last  line  of  a  Spenserian  stanza  is  called  an 
Alexandrine.  This  poem  has  many  which  ai'e  very  beauti- 
fid ;  this  one  and  the  last  lines  of  stanzas  xv,  xxiv,  xxx,  xl,  are 
especially  fine. 

5.  For  instance. 

6.  Dead,  an  old  expression  borrowed  from  the  French. 
Keats  found  it  in  the  Elizabethan  poets,  whom  he  read  with 
delight. 

7.  Concealed  by  the  projecting  buttress. 

8.  There  is  a  feud  between  the  families :  see  stanzas  xi, 
xii.  Porphyro's  visit  is  something  like  that  of  Romeo  to 
Juliet. 

9.  The  nuns  who  spun  the  wool  of  the  lambs  dedicated 
at  the  feast  of  St.  Agnes,  and  afterwards  shorn. 

10.  A  W' itch's  sieve  would  hold  water :  one  of  the  watches 
in  "  Macbetli  "  proposed  to  use  one  for  a  voyage  to  Aleppo. 

11.  Keats  meant  rextniin  or  control.  The  word  is  never  used 
in  just  that  sense;  it  used,  among  other  things,  to  mean  to 
digest,  nnuiage. 

12.  Merlin  was  the  wizard  councilor  of  King  Arthur. 
AVhat  was  his  monstrous  debt?  Perhaps  Keats  had  in 
mind  the  story  of  Vivien  afterward  told  by  Tennyson  in  "  The 
Idylls  of  the  King." 

13.  Instead  of  rising  on  the  Day  of  Judgment. 


252  NOTES 

14.    Tlic  heraldic  name  for  red,  the  color  of  love. 
1.5.    Dead  outwardly,  but  full  of  life  within. 

16.  That  reasonless  fear  when  there  is  no  one  at  hand  to 
be  afraid  of. 

17.  The  name  is  that  of  a  jioem  by  Alain  Chartier. 
Keats  afterward  wrote  a  ballad  with  the  same  name  which 
may  be  found  in  "  Ballads  and  Ballad  Poetry,"  p.  121. 

18.  Tlie  tapestries  on  the  wall,  with  figured  embroidery. 


THE   PRISONER   OF   CHILLON 

Francois  de  Bonnivard,  a  champion  of  the  political  and 
religious  liberty  of  Geneva,  w^as  imprisoned  in  the  Castle  of 
Chillon  by  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  from  1530  to  1536.  On  his 
release  he  found  Geneva  a  republic  and  lived  to  a  good  old 
age  as  an  honored  citizen.  Byron  knew  little  of  his  actual 
story  when  he  wrote  the  poem,  but  his  jwetical  spirit  leaped 
up  in  sympathy  with  one  who  had  suffered  for  the  cause  of 
liberty. 

1.  The  Castle  of  Chillon  stands  on  the  shore  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva,  at  the  eastern  end.  It  is  in  part  very  ancient, 
and  is  very  conspicuous  from  the  lake. 

2.  Byron  may  have  had  in  mind  the  blue  reflections  of 
the  waves  of  the  lake,  which  is  said  to  be  noticeable  in  the 
dungeon. 

3.  The  contrast  lietween  the  two  types  of  character  in 
the  brothers  is  notewoi-thy.  Both  are  free  spirits,  but  one 
-is  active  and  the  other  passive.  Neither  has  the  grim  en- 
durance of  the  Prisoner  himself. 

4.  From  Lemannus,  the  Latin  name  for  the  Lake  of 
Geneva. 

5.  And  shocked  the  mind  so  that  it  could  not  appreciate 
theui,  as  it  could  this  long-drawu  suffering. 

6.  There  was,  of  coui-se,  but  one,  but  the  Prisoner  was 
not  thinking  much  of  himself. 


NOTES  253 

7.  The  influence  of  nature,  —  so  nmch  of  it  as  he  could 
get  in  so  miserable  a  place. 

8.  For  an  instant  he  had  quite  forgotten  his  walls,  did 
not  even  see  them. 

9.  The  dungeon  of  Bonnivard  shows  the  traces  worn  in 
the  stone  floor  of  his  constant  walk. 

10.  Would  have. 

11.  The  mountain  chain  that  rises  to  Mont  Blanc. 

12.  Byron  himself  notices  one  single  island  in  the  Lake 
of  Geneva,  small  and  with  three  trees. 

13.  In  reality  the  Castle  of  Chillon  was  captured  by  the 
Bernese  in  the  year  1536. 

LADY  GERALDINE'S  COURTSHIP 

This  poem  is  called  "  A  Romance  of  the  Age,"  and  there 
is  a  good  deal  in  the  poetic  disposition  of  Bertram  which 
was  more  akin  to  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century 
than  to  the  first  half  of  the  twentieth.  It  is  of  the  same 
time  as  '■  Locksley  Hall."  AVe  cannot  precisely  feel  with 
either.  Yet  each  has  some  beautiful  poetry.  This  poem  is 
chiefly  notable,  aside  from  the  nobility  of  its  temper,  for 
not  a  few  very  ex(piisite  expressions  and  figures,  some  of 
which  are  remarked  in  these  notes. 

1.  Railroads  were  only  just  being  built  all  over  England, 
to  the  great  profit  of  those  who  had  land  to  sell,  but  to  the 
destruction  of  nnich  natural  beauty  and  quiet.  There  is 
another  mention  of  them  on  p.  1.50. 

2.  Presumably  the  House  of  Commons,  which  in  1845 
still  contained  some  members  who  were  returned  by  family 
influence. 

3.  The  salt  was  the  old-time  point  at  table  which  marked 
the  difference  between  the  well  and  lowly  born. 

4.  In  a  childlike  manner;  but  the  word  is  uncommon. 

5.  An  excellent  touch. 

6.  A  beautiful  picture. 


254    .  NOTES 

7.  Lough,  ail  Euglisli  sculptor,  one  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
friends. 

8.  The  conversation  suggests  the  idea  of  inward  and  out- 
ward worth  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  poem. 

9.  A  fancy,  but  a  pretty  one. 

10.  Browning's  early  poems  were  published  as  a  series 
called  "  Bells  and  Pomegranates." 

11.  I.e.  stoops  to  the  ground. 

12.  The  idea  is  as  good  to-day  as  sixty  years  ago. 

13.  Makes  one  see  clearly  and  speak  truly,  like  the 
Pythia  or  jiriestess  of  Apollo  at  Delphi,  who  uttered  the 
oracles. 

11.  If  he  were  not  so  much  of  a  man  as  to  feel  anger  and 
false  shame. 

15.  He  was  right ;  it  was  not  manly  to  blackguard  a 
woman  in  such  a  fashion. 

16.  Notice  a  change  in  the  rhyming,  perhaps  in  answer 
to  an  increase  in  the  intensity  of  feeling. 


ATALANTA'S   RACE 

William  Morris  has  been  called  the  greatest  teller  of 
tales  in  verse  since  Chaucer.  Certain  it  is  that  he  gives  us 
the  story  in  poetic  form,  in  piu'er  narrative,  that  is,  with  less 
addition  in  the  way  of  ornament  in  thought,  more  for  the 
story's  own  sake  than  is  the  case  witli  most  of  the  poems  we 
have  had  to  do  witli. 

1.  Arcadia  was  a  part  of  the  Peloponnesus  or  peninsula 
of  Greece. 

2.  Apollo  the  sun-god  was  also  the  sender  of  pestilence, 
a  not  unnatural  idea  in  a  tropical  climate. 

3.  Artemis,  or  Diana,  the  virgin  goddess  of  the  chase. 

4.  The  wedding  garment. 

5.  Argolis  was  the  country  next  to  Arcadia. 

6.  Artemis,  Seleue,  Hecate,  comprising  the  threefold  attri- 


NOTES  255 

butes  of  goddess  of  the  chase,  of  the  moon,  and  of  enchant- 
ment. 

7.  Aphrodite,  goddess  of  love. 

8.  The  golden  age,  just  mentioned,  the  age  when  Saturn 
was  king,  when  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  the  world. 

THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS 

This  poem,  like  many  of  Browning's,  is  a  story  in  the 
mouth  of  a  story-teller.  We  have  the  man  who  tells  the 
story  as  well  as  the  story  itself.  Hence  the  abruptness  at 
beginning,  as  though  some  one  were  talking;  we  are  not  told 
the  circumstances,  but  have  to  make  them  out  for  ourselves. 

1.  The  scene  of  the  poem  was  in  Eastern  Europe,  Transyl- 
vania perhaps,  so  that  the  description  looks  off  and  away  to 
the  Black  Sea. 

2.  The  huntsman's  quarters  where  the  hounds  were  kept. 

3.  One  of  the  phrases  that  is  explained  by  remembering 
that  the  poem  is  told  by  some  one.  Either  beer  or  wine,  he 
says,  it  doesn't  matter. 

4.  She  was  perhaps  a  gypsy. 

5.  The  Duke  came  to  Paris  in  the  midst  of  the  Romantic 
enthusiasm  for  the  Middle  Ages. 

6.  ^Nlany  girls  in  Europe  are  bred  at  convent  schools. 

7.  She  was  glad  to  see  that  he  loved  animals  as  she  did. 

8.  The  first  greeting  gives  a  touch  of  w'hat  is  coming. 
The  fresh  glad  life  of  the  Duchess  feels  instinctively  shriv- 
eled at  the  lifeless  stiffness  of  the  formal  Duke. 

9.  I.e.  she  would  have  done  splendidly  as  the  wife  of  a 
man  who  had  needed  a  real  companion  and  helper  in  work 
and  life. 

10.  She  had  really  a  formal  position. 

11.  She  could  not  stand  such  a  lack  of  vitality. 

12.  I.e.  off  in  Eastern  Europe.  Gypsies  are  still  not  un- 
common in  Hungary,  though  not  so  often  met  with  in 
Western  Europe. 


256  NOTES 

13.  He  thouglit  the  Duchess  had  so  far  had  too  simple 
and  easy  a  time,  and  so  sent  the  old  gypsy  to  her,  with  a 
result  which  he  could  hardly  have  anticipated. 

14.  Cf.  the  second  Hue  of  the  poem. 

15.  The  old  woman  had  something  in  mind  that  the 
Duke  did  not  imagine.  To  tell  the  truth,  as  soon  appears, 
she  was  not  merely  the  old  hag  he  took  her  for. 

16.  Instead  of  adding  to  the  Duchess's  bothers,  the  old 
woman  was  showing  her  how  to  cast  them  off. 

17.  The  kindred  spark  which  will  be  found  in  all  that 
great  confraternity  of  those  who  know  true  life  and  are 
stiffened  at  the  mere  forms  of  it. 

18.  The  haters,  those  who  have  not  love  at  heart,  or  prac- 
tically all  those  who  are  bent  on  carrying  out  their  own  in- 
terests without  regard  to  any  one  else  and  so  in  opposition 
to  them. 

19.  Of  course  money  was  no  reward  between  such. 

20.  No  use  telling  of  the  place  after  the  Duchess  had 
gone. 

21.  Family  loyalty. 

22.  The  old  man's  recollection  of  the  Bible  is  not  very 
exact. 

23.  The  rough,  straightforward,  and  simple  do  not  get  on 
in  this  world,  he  thinks.  To  tell  the  truth,  they  do  not,  un- 
less they  are  content  with  the  rough,  straightforward,  and 
simple  things  of  this  world. 

24.  The  Wood  Knight,  twin  brother  of  Valentine,  who 
had  been  lost  in  childhood  and  grown  up  among  the  rough 
wood  creatures. 

MICHAEL 

This  is  not  a  hard  poem  to  understand,  but  it  is  not  an 
easy  one  to  appreciate.  We  can  read  it  without  trouble, 
but  when  we  try  to  gain  the  whole  poetic  character,  it  is  not 
so  simple.  Such  is,  indeed,  the  case  with  all  of  Words- 
worth's poetry.  It  may  be  a  help  to  give  a  few  words  from 
a  modern  critic. 


NOTES  257 

"  And  so  he  has  much  for  those  who  value  highly  the 
concentrated  presentment  of  passion,  who  appraise  men  and 
women  by  their  susceptibility  to  it,  and  art  and  poetry  as 
they  alford  the  spectacle  of  it.  Breaking  from  time  to  time 
into  the  pensive  spectacle  of  their  daily  toil,  their  occupa- 
tions near  to  nature,  come  those  great  elementary  feelings, 
lifting  and  solemnizing  their  language  and  giving  it  a  nat- 
ural music.  The  great  distinguishing  passion  came  to  Mi- 
chael by  the  sheepfold,  to  Ruth  by  the  wayside,  adding 
these  humble  children  of  the  furrow  to  the  true  aristocracy 
of  passionate  souls.  ...  A  sort  of  biblical  depth  and  solem- 
nity hangs  over  this  strange  new,  passionate,  pastoral  world 
of  which  he  first  raised  the  image,  and  the  reflection  of 
which  some  of  our  best  modern  fiction  has  caught  from  him." 
—  Walter  Pater  :  Essay  on  Wordstvorth. 

1.  A   glen  or  narrow  valley. 

2.  In  1799  Wordsworth  moved  to  the  Lake  country  in 
northern  England,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  pastoral  life 
about  him,  both  of  nature  and  of  man. 

3.  There  are  who  think  that  the  sailor,  the  farmer,  the 
hunter,  men  whose  way  of  life  brings  them  into  necessary 
contact  with  nature,  are  indifferent  to  any  but  her  most  prac- 
tical characteristics. 

4.  Grasmere,  near  which  Wordsworth  lived  for  several 
years  and  near  which  he  lies  buried. 

5.  The  word  used  in  the  north  of  England  for  shearing. 

6.  Not  in  the  usual  sense,  but  meaning  busy. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 
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